


Uncharted Territory

by InCeruleanInk



Category: Anne of the Thousand Days (1969), Elizabeth (Movies), The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Drama, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Gilmore Girls AU (sort of), Jane the Virgin au, Modern AU, Reincarnation, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-01-30 13:58:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12654933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InCeruleanInk/pseuds/InCeruleanInk
Summary: When Anne is artificially impregnated with stranger, Henry's, baby by mistake, both their lives and those of all in their circles are thrown into upheaval as they are faced with choices that will change all of their lives forever...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boleynqueens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/gifts).



> This fic was meant to be a oneshot that grew into something much, much larger. It's also a very, very late birthday present for our amazing @boleynqueens <3
> 
> Just a note that I won't be updating this fic weekly like I do with my other current fic, http://archiveofourown.org/works/11122776/chapters/24825555 at least until I finish that one ;D 
> 
> This is 100% just for fun. Obv this plot is inspired by Jane the Virgin and I take no credit for it, whatsoever. Additionally, these characters are based on historical figures and I own none of them. Please enjoy!!
> 
> Also, fyi, I altered names to be a little more ~modern seeming, so:  
> Anne Butler = Anne Boleyn  
> Mary Butler = Mary Boleyn  
> Henry Pembroke = Henry VIII  
> Catalina Pembroke = Catherine of Aragon  
> Percy North = Henry Percy, 6th Earl of Northumberland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne opens her eyes. “Are you saying I’m…I’m pregnant?”

**Monday, December 11, 11:33am**

They’re all there, waiting, staring at Anne with anxious expressions. Her sister Mary sits on the arm of brother George’s chair; fiancée Percy has taken up residence in the seat next to them; baby daddy Henry and his wife, Catalina, occupy the couch beside it, sitting side-by-side in a formal file. All faces turn to stare at her expectantly. She forces a smile, shrugs.

“Well,” says Anne, arches her brows and straightens her shoulders – _If you’ve something to say_ , her mother’s voice rings in her head. _Say it with authority_. “I’m pregnant.”

**Monday, November 27, 2:09am**

TEXT MESSAGES

**Percy North to Anne Butler**

Go to sleep

**Anne Butler**

Don’t tell me what to do.

**Percy**

You have that checkup in the morning remember?

**Anne**

You had to remind me.

**Percy**

Yes, I did

**Percy**

Clearly

**Percy**

Obv you would have forgotten

**Anne**

I didn’t forget!

**Anne**

Fine, I’ll go to bed!

**Anne**

Just a few more minutes…

**Percy**

Or hours…

**Anne**

Shut up! 

**Percy**

Tell me I’m wrong

**Anne**

I’m studying!

**Percy**

Shocker

**Anne**

Shut up! I’ll be at the appointment!

**Percy**

I love you

**Anne**

Freak!

**Anne**

I love you, too.

**Percy**

Goodnight, babe

**Monday, November 27, 3:58am**

TEXT MESSAGE

**Anne Butler to Percy North**

Goodnight!

**Monday, November 27, 6:56am**

Anne’s head lulls against the grimy bus window. Groggily, she sits up straight, shoulders down, back straight by instinct, face forward…finds herself lulled once again. Somewhere deep inside she thinks, _I’m not surprised_ , the late nights of cramming pester at her exhausted brain: even in her sleep she replays the thoughts: her analyses, her grueling research…She’s thinking now in French, now English; in the smattering of Italian she knows, in Portuguese…The bus jolts.

Anne sits up again, frowning in sleep towards the opening door at the front. She stares, blinks owlishly, _Where am I?_ Anne leans against the window, now, brow furrowed as she gazes out on the morning landscape. _I need more coffee_ , she’s thinking as the driver shouts again, and suddenly, she recognizes the building across the street.

“Oh!” exclaims Anne, jumping up, trying to squeeze past the other passengers. “This is me!” The doors are closing. “Wait, this is me!”

The driver makes an annoyed gesture, Anne thinks: _Rude_ , and trundles down the steps.

This isn’t exactly an appointment she’s looking forward to: quite the opposite, in fact. She loathes doctors but she’s a responsible adult (or trying to act that way, in any case), and she goes, anyway. Thinks: _Just two hundred years ago medicine was akin to torture,_ as she steps down onto the pavement. The OBGYN receptionist is a bit too chipper, given the hour, given her job: _No one ever comes here happily_ , thinks Anne, wryly. But it’s not so very early, really, Anne remembers: most people had more than two hours of sleep last night.

The waiting area is empty: nice and quiet and Anne falls asleep, head nestled in her folded jacket. It doesn’t matter: she can sleep for awhile. She’s early for her appointment, anyway, as always. It seems that she’s only just nodded off when she hears someone calling.

Anne wants to cry. She doesn’t. Grabbing her purse, she files dutifully down the corridor after the nurse – a woman only about five years older than herself who calls her ‘honey’ – to the little room where she will meet with Dr. Butts (Anne snickered when she heard the name), but the nurse is saying:

“Honey, Dr. Butts is out sick today.”

_Ironic_ , thinks Anne, glancing at the health charts on the walls. She bites her lips, arches her brows.

The nurse continues: “But we’ve got you all taken care of, honey, don’t worry,” she adds, apparently misinterpreting Anne’s expression. Whatever else the nurse might have said is lost on Anne, as she spots the couch, jutting out into the room as they always do in medical examination rooms, greedy sleep growing giddy with anticipation. _I can lie down!_

“Ok,” replies Anne, with a quick jerk of the head. She walks over to the couch, climbs up onto it.

“Good luck, honey, you’re gonna do great!” exclaims the nurse, enthusiastically.

Anne falls asleep almost instantly. She’s vaguely aware of the doctor coming in, humming, saying things in an encouraging tone to her, chatting amiably in an on-going chorus of undulating words, but she’s much more interested in the relative comfort of lying down, in keeping her eyes closed and groping, emotionally, towards sleep once more. The stirrups are uncomfortable, the doctor is chatting still, but Anne knows she can sleep, she _knows_ this, she’s tired enough she can make anything work. She also knows she needs to wake up, now, that her appointment has begun. When she gets married, (soon!) she wants to go into it knowing that she’s in full health, which is the entire purpose of the checkup and, if she doesn’t listen, how will she know? But sleep beckons, her eyes flutter shut, and…

“Whoa! Ah! What on earth!” Anne cringes away from the doctor and whatever it is he’s thrust inside her. “What the _hell_!”

He’s already withdrawn whatever it was and looks at her with large, round eyes. “Mrs. Pembroke, it was only the insemination-“

She stares in incomprehension, looks away towards the wall blankly, back again. Anne can’t breathe, she wants to, tries desperately to suck air into her craving lungs, but her voice and breath are caught just behind her tongue, trapped like she’s gagging on words. Her mind hasn’t caught up, but her emotions have, ragged and raw and there are tears forming in her eyes. Anne blinks furiously, confused. “The _what_?” She feels choked, cloying, her voice sounds tiny and panicked in her own ears. “Who is Mrs. Pembroke?” And it stings, down _there_ , she stings, still. Impatiently, Anne rips her feet from the stirrups and sits up, pushes her legs together as tight as she can. “I’m not-I’m Anne Butler, what on earth are you talking about?”

The doctor turns red, red and then pale as though he were bloodless and cold to the touch. He sways where he sits and she stretches out her hand, instinctively, to catch him if he falls. “Catalina Pembroke?”

Anne shakes her head. “Insemination? Did you just…am I…Please, please, _please_ tell me there’s been a mistake, that-“

The doctor nods. “A mistake, yes,” he says. “There _has_ been a mistake. Mrs. Pembroke is trying to have a baby. I-I thought you were her and-“

“‘She,’” says Anne, firmly, squeezing her eyes shut. “You thought I was ‘ _she’_ , not ‘her.’” She balls her hands into fists and wraps her arms around herself. She shakes her head. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m correcting your grammar, right now.”

He stares, stops, clears his throat. The doctor continues, his voice a horrified monotone. “I just…inseminated you with Mr. Pembroke’s sample.”

Anne opens her eyes. “Are you saying I’m…I’m _pregnant_?”

The door flies open and the nurse from before staggers in, breathless. “Doctor! Wait! That isn’t Mrs. Pembroke!”

Anne hugs herself firmly, feels a bubble of giggles in the back of her throat. She pulls her knees up under her chin and laughs and laughs, leaning back against the seat. “No,” she replies, shaking her head. “I am _not_! But he just impregnated me, anyway!” Tears, not happy tears, flow down her cheeks as Anne laughs and laughs and laughs.

**Monday, November 27, 7:32am**

Mrs. Pembroke, Anne finds, is standing in the waiting room, hands on her hips. She’s beautiful, with burnished red-gold hair running down her back in waves, big blue eyes, pretty pink lips and cheeks…She looks as though she’s just stepped out of glossy magazine ad for either a sophisticate bride or a glamorous watch, rather than a real, living, breathing human being. Too perfect, Anne decides.

Anne’s stopped her hysterical laughing, for now, and feels exhausted – a bone-deep exhaustion different from the sleepy apathy of earlier. Instead, she feels hyper-aware as though every hair on her arm and every inch of skin were sensitive to the air surrounding them all.

“This is _unacceptable_ ,” snaps Mrs. Pembroke to whomever she is addressing (a person currently out of Anne’s view as they enter the room). She does not raise her voice, does not wildly gesticulate. She is short, but she her gaze is withering and even Anne feels a spike of intimidation, even though the woman does not so much as glance her way. Catalina (Anne remembers that is her name) arches a single brow at the rueful group traipsing into the office – Anne, the doctor who inseminated Anne, and the nurse who showed Anne into the room where Anne was inseminated. Catalina sweeps an appraising glance over the trio and turns back to the person she has been addressing. “You will correct the mistake immediately.”

“I-I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He draws the frigid blue gaze.

“Explain.” There is something a little off about Catalina’s voice – the softest touch of an accent, perhaps, Anne speculates. Still, she is calm, not shrill or screaming: direct, commanding; Anne thinks she acts like a queen.

The doctor quails beneath her gaze.

Catalina glances away, back to the unfortunate physician. “Explain what exactly is going on to _me_ ,” she instructs. “So that _I_ may explain to my husband when he arrives. Believe me, you do not wish to face _his_ wrath if you think mine is frightening.” Her eyes catch on Anne. “Who is this person?”

“I’m Anne Butler, the person who was mistaken for you, apparently,” replies she, sweeping an appraising gaze of her own across Catalina Pembroke. She suppresses more laughter, bringing her fist up to her lips as she chuckles despite herself. _Never_ , she thought wryly, _Were there ever two more different women_. Even down to their clothing, they are different, Catalina wears a blush pink sheath dress, rocks a massive diamond on her left ring finger along with her wedding band. Catalina’s skin is peaches-and-cream, pale and nearly translucent. She wears blush pumps to sculpt her legs and, Anne assumes, lend some much-needed height. She has a perfect hourglass figure, ample breasts, pleasing hips, plump lips, a delicate nose…Every stitch of clothing she is wearing is designer, and she’s dripping with diamond jewelry. Her makeup is stunningly perfect in application as though a whole professional team had made her up that morning. Perhaps they did.

Anne is of average height, sporting an off-the-rack black trench coat that she bought two years ago on clearance (and, yeah, it’s stylish, but that’s mostly because Anne tailored it, herself, and let’s be honest, Anne has an amazing eye for fashion). Under that, she’s got on a black scoop neck tee shirt dress that she, frankly, only wore for the high comfort factor because these visits are always miserable and Anne was very sleepy when she got dressed this morning. The only stitch of jewelry she wears are the ones she _always_ wears: her modest engagement ring and the B pendant necklace her father gave her when she was a girl. Her skin is olive, her neck long, her eyes and hair so deep a brown they are almost black. Her figure is skinny, sticklike (something that has embarrassed her since she was a old enough to care), with little bosom to speak of. The only splash of makeup she wears, besides moisturizer (which doesn’t count), is red, red lipstick that she absolutely and definitely applied herself.

“I’m in agreement with Mrs. Pembroke,” she adds, narrowing her eyes. “What can we do to fix this? I’m getting married soon, I can’t, _can’t_ be pregnant, ok? I can’t, I-“ Anne stops, gasps for air, she feels whoozy and, judging by the worried expressions around her, looks it, too, sways. She feels a steadying grip on her shoulder from behind and leans into it gratefully.

“What’s going on?” says the new voice from behind her, a deep British baritone. Anne glances up and he turns his head to return the curious glance. He’s tall, _very_ tall, and handsome. Like Mrs. Pembroke, this man – Anne concludes he must be the Mr. Pembroke of the ferocious temper – appears to be early thirties, wearing a suit like he just walked out of a sleek sports car ad (really, this is getting ridiculous), except that he’s faintly ginger which throws off the sports car ad aesthetic slightly. His eyes are a dark, dark blue, he wears a studied five o’clock shadow and close-cropped strawberry blond hair. He eyes the doctor, shares a glance with his wife, and turns back to Anne. “Are you ok?”

Anne nods, dutifully. It’s a lie, she feels sick, but she just met him and she’s, in fact, in a room surrounded by strangers. She wants to run away, but there’s nowhere to go. She needs to stay, to sort this out. “I think we should call Dr. Butts. I don’t care _how_ sick he is.”

Catalina nods. “Yes, call the good doctor. Henry,” she says to the man behind Anne, stretching out her hand. He comes to her, takes her hand. She murmurs to him aside. The two are striking together, both because they’re remarkably attractive people and because – perhaps more so – they are so wildly different in size. Henry clocks in over six feet in height, while Catalina is at least a foot shorter – possibly even more so.

Anne finds a chair and sits down, looks at her feet. She knows that it can’t be solved, knows that now that they’ve put Henry’s “sample” inside of her, they can’t take it out, knows that she’s carrying a baby she doesn’t want and depriving this flawlessly elegant couple of a baby she has to assume (given the lengths they’ve clearly gone to,) they very much want.

“ _What!_ ” Henry’s voice booms through the room. Anne looks up abruptly, watches as the employees all cringe. Mr. Pembroke comes to the center of the room, stabbing the air between himself and the medical staff with a demanding finger. “Tell me,” he growls. “That this is a mistake.”

Anne’s lips curl into what might have been a snarl in another situation and coughs back another laugh. “It is,” she says, glancing at the doctor, remembering how he said something similar to her, earlier. “That’s the problem.”

The physician holds both his hands out in front of him as if to fend off the opposition. “Now, it is always possible that the sample…won’t…take. That is, that you,” he glances at Anne, back to the Pembrokes. “Won’t actually become pregnant. In about two to four weeks you can take tests to help…determine whether you are pregnant.”

Anne nods. “Ok,” she begins. “Is there anything I can do to…make my body inhospitable? I really, I just…I can’t be pregnant right now. Especially with a stranger’s baby, that’s not… _me_ ,” she flicks her eyes towards Henry Pembroke, who looked somewhat stricken as soon as the doctor announced that the pregnancy might not proceed. “No offence.”

Henry holds up his hands in surrender. “None taken. Look, I understand that…Miss Butler, is it?” Anne nods. “Doesn’t want a baby, right now, but my wife-“ he puts his arm around her. “And I _do_. And, as you know, we’ve gone through a great deal of trouble to ensure that we will have a child-“

“Of course, Mr. Pembroke, of course,” the physician replies, nodding sagely like a teacher asked a silly question by a slow student. “Miss Butler, might I ask…why did you come up when we called Mrs. Pembroke?”

Anne glances up from her shoes (she’d noticed that they were scuffed and had chosen to focus on this rather than her potential pregnancy). “What?”

The nurse glanced nervously at her, at Mrs. Pembroke, licked her lips, “Well, when I called Mrs. Pembroke back, you instantly got up and walked back…”

“Oh,” Anne murmurs, bites her lip. “I didn’t actually hear the name,” she confesses, squaring her shoulders. “I was asleep and someone yelling woke me up and, since no one else was in the waiting room, I assumed you were calling me…”

“I wasn’t there,” says Catalina. “Because there was a terrible accident between me and here which made my driver late. If you had taken the trouble to answer your phone or review your voicemails, you would have known that.”

They all stare accusingly at the nurse, then at Anne, and Anne realizes she’s being made into a scapegoat. Anger flares, rushing ruddy across cheeks and lighting her dark eyes with fury, and Anne puts both hands on her hips. “You might have checked before you just stuck that thing right in. I was _clearly_ asleep when you did that! You could easily have at least asked my name, asked a few questions from my medical chart to verify my identity! Look, I came in for a basic check up just to be sure that I’m healthy – which I _still_ haven’t received by the way – before my wedding! You were the one that just up and inseminated me without so much as a word from me! So, yeah, I get that you’re pissed, Mr. and Mrs. Pembroke, but guess what? I bet I’m more upset! This one _stupid_ mistake has the potential to ruin my entire _life_. I’ve got everything all planned, ok, I’m studying for my doctorate, I’m about to be _married_ to a really great guy, I’m going to travel the world, and I am frankly on a very tight budget. I cannot in any way afford a baby! Not now. So yeah, you can be angry, but I assure you, I’m the injured party here.”

“What do you have to say to that?” demands Henry, coldly, eyeing the doctor.

The physician squirms under his gaze. He clears his throat, looks to Anne, looks to Catalina, looks to the floor. “You asked, ma’am, if there was anything you could do to keep from conceiving and…No, there really isn’t.”

Anne had known that but it feels like a blow to hear it from a doctor who won’t even look her in the eye. Grabbing her purse, Anne slams the door open and storms out. She doesn’t know where she’s going, marches determinedly down one corridor, up another. She’s shaking by the time she finds herself outside. She doesn’t realize she’s crying until one tear drops from her face onto her chest and she looks dumbly down at the wet spot, stabs at it with one finger, and buries her face in her hands to sob. _This isn’t, can’t be real_ , she thinks. _Things like this just don’t happen! I didn’t even want to come here in the first place._ It seemed like the responsible thing to do, so she did it, and now…Anne feels useless, stupid, ineffectual. She stamps her foot like a five year old and wipes angrily at her tears.

“No, no,” she mutters. “No tears.” If the sample takes and Anne becomes pregnant, she will have a choice before her, an ugly choice, a scary one: a choice she planned very carefully to ensure she would never have to make.

She turns when she hears the door open behind her.

“Wait, wait!” It’s Henry Pembroke, looking flushed, sounding breathless. He has a huge wad of cash in his hand which he’s offering to her. The hand is shaking. “Please, um, please, I…” He closes his eyes, a pained expression crosses his face. “Look, I know, I _know_ this is all really scary and, um, really,” he shakes his head. “It’s a lot to throw at anyone, ok? And I know I have no right, whatsoever, to ask this of you, but…if it works, if you conceive, will you at least _consider_ keeping the baby? I know you don’t want it and I know it’s a lot to ask but…I do. I mean, I do want it, the baby. I want the baby so, so much…and Catalina and I, as you might have guessed, after our first child we can’t seem to have any more, we can’t, we…we both want more children so much, so much…Please, please consider it. We will do everything, whatever you want, whatever it takes, to ease this process, to help you through everything, ok? Whatever you want, you got it. And after it’s born, I’d bring it home with me and Catalina would adopt it and you’d never have to think about it, again, if you didn’t want to…but we could give the child a good, a great life. We _want_ to. It’s your decision, of course, but…Will you at least consider it?”

Anne stares at him, glances at the cash, stares at him again. _Unreal_ , she thinks. _And becoming more absurd all the time_. She hugs her arms around her, realizes she left her coat. “I need to…go. I’m cold, I-“

Henry takes his suit jacket off, drapes it around her shoulders without question. “Please, Anne…that is your name?” Anne nods. “Anne, please consider it. You wouldn’t have to worry about a single thing.”

“I need to think,” she replies, her own voice sounds distant in her head. Behind Henry, the doors open and Catalina steps out into the sunlight, blinks, puts on sunglasses that make her look like a classic Hollywood movie star.

Henry nods. “Ok,” he says. “Ok.” He clears his throat. “Look, here’s my number,” he adds, pulls a receipt out of his pocket and scribbles a number on the back, puts it into her hand. “Call me, text me, whatever, anytime at all, it’s doesn’t matter. Just…let me know how things go?”

Anne nods sullenly. It’s his baby, too, afterall, she thinks. He deserves to at least know. “I will,” she promises.

“God bless you,” says Catalina and Anne’s mouth opens; she almost says, _I wish He had_ , but it feels sacrilegious and Anne needs all the higher help she can get just now. Her mouth is dry. Her bus pulls up and it looks alien to her, somehow, now.

She nods at Catalina.   “You, too,” she mumbles, stuffing the phone number into her pocket (his pocket, actually, as she’s wearing his jacket, but the fact slips her mind). “I’ll let you know,” she promises Henry, turns, climbs onto the bus. She’s halfway down the road before she realizes that she still has his jacket on and she left her own at the OBGYN, and the memory of what happened plays in her head all over. Anne cries again.

Reaching into her purse when the tears have gone dry, she fishes out her phone, goes to favorites, hits _Mary Butler_. “Hey,” she says shakily into the receiver. “Are you available to meet today? I have to talk to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this first chapter turned out a lot angstier than I wanted but I sort of had to get...the inciting incident out of the way to move the plot forward. I promise there's fluff to come in future! <3
> 
> Dr. Butts was Henry VIII's second best court physician and treated Anne Boleyn while she had the sweating sickness. Anne's last name is Butler here, which was her paternal grandmother's last name, and it keeps her initials A.B. <3 The Tudors are the Pembrokes, given their familial connection to the place. Henry Percy is Percy North bc 1) the name Henry was already taken 2) Northumberland is just...so long I wanted to shorten it.
> 
> All physical descriptions are based on the historical counterparts, both as described by people who met them and based on their extant portraits.
> 
> Let me know what you thought!! I hope you liked it!!!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s…so much here to unpack.” Anne holds one side of her face, shakes her head. “I mean, what happened to his kids, his mom, his brother…It’s awful. No wonder he wants a big family and plenty of distractions, just to help make up for some of what he’s lost.”

**Monday, November 27, 7:49am**

“Mmmm,” Mary hums as her phone rings. It’s somewhere in the bed with her, tangled up in the sheets as Mary fumbles for it. She can see the light, feel the buzz, and she’s swimming amongst the sheets, thinking, _This is how it must feel to dive for oysters_. Seizing the phone, she lies back amongst her mass of pillows, puts the phone to her ear. “Morning, Annie,” she greets, closing her eyes, but the cheer goes out of her when she hears her sister’s tone.

“Hey,” Anne says shakily into the receiver. “Are you available to meet today? I have to talk to you.” Anne Butler is crying and Anne Butler never cries.

“Of course,” Mary lies, jumps out of bed. Everything can be postponed, doesn’t matter, not when her sister is crying. “Where? When? I’ll be there.”

It’s a park they settle on, full of November roses. Mary isn’t surprised to find her sister walking wistfully in a beautiful place when she’s upset. She’s too fond of all that is beautiful to do anything else.

Mary hugs her the moment she sees Anne and Anne collapses into the moment, weeping again. Panic surges into Mary’s throat, but she pulls her sister close, “Shhhh,” rubs her back comfortingly until the tears at last stop.

“Sorry,” says Anne, withdrawing, wiping at her face with her hands – Mary pulls out the fresh pack of tissues she brought specially and Anne opens them gratefully.

“Don’t be sorry! That’s what sisters are for, aren’t they?”

Anne smiles distantly, tilts her head. “So, I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it. I might be pregnant.”

“ _What?!_ ”

**Monday, November 27, 8:04am**

When Anne Butler was thirteen years old, she made a decision about how she would live her life, and Anne isn’t one to break her promises. No matter what, she had decided, she wasn’t going to have sex until she was married. It was old fashioned, yes, but it was also her choice and one that, no matter how difficult to keep, she had never actually regretted. Both she and Mary knew this fact intimately, and knew well its reasons, which made her declaration almost unbelievable. Anne appreciates this fact, isn’t shocked by Mary’s astonishment: she was just as unbelieving herself when the doctor told her.

She watches Mary, watches her clear her throat after her outburst – Anne can tell she is sorry about her reaction but doesn’t know how to proceed. Anne decides that moving forward is the best thing and starts to speak when Mary begins.

“So you and Percy…finally…”

Anne shakes her head and Mary’s brow furrows, her mouth opens and Anne shakes her head fiercely. “It’s not like that! I didn’t cheat on him!”

Mary holds up her hands. “Ok, ok, sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

Anne sighs, nods. “I know.” She also knows that everyone will think just what Mary did, but few will be so quick to believe in her innocence – especially Percy’s family. How could they not? The other possibility – which happened to be the reality – was so incredible as to be unthinkable. “I went to the OBGYN this morning for a checkup.”

Mary nods. She knew it was coming up.

“Dr. Butts was out sick, so some doctor I’ve never met before saw me…Apparently there was some mix up.”

“Mix up?” Mary looks ready to throw up. Anne feels ready to do so alongside her.

Anne nods. “I’ve been artificially inseminated.”

Mary stares, stares and stares like the words spilling out of Anne’s mouth have no meaning, like Anne is mad, and Anne can’t blame her. “You were…”

“The doctor said it might not take, that I might not wind up pregnant at all, but if I do…”

Mary sits down on the nearest park bench, Anne sits beside her and, suddenly, Mary takes both her sister’s hands, squeezes them. “But if you do…end up pregnant, you’ve got a big choice to make…”

Anne nods again, dumbly, like she has palsy and it’s not a part of her, this motion, not her choice, but it is: it is her choice and she’s got more in front of her, and she feels sick and tired and just…sick, in general. “The baby’s father really, _really_ wants the baby, though.”

Mary nods, too, like an owl, shrugs. “Well, that’s good, right?”

“I don’t know,” replies Anne, she fixates on a rose hovering near her, a red-tipped white rose, and stretches out her hand to caress the strange blossom. It doesn’t seem natural, but neither, she supposes, is her child in the typical sense.

“So you’re thinking that you don’t want to keep it?” Mary asks, gently. There is not judgment in her, and Anne knew there wouldn’t be, but it’s still a relief to hear the neutrality in her voice.

“I don’t know,” she admits, voice cracking as she turns back to her sister, shaking her head. She feels tears again, but it’s not even 9:00 and she doesn’t want to cry for the like the fifth time today.

Mary wraps an arm around her shoulder. “You know what? I think what we really need is some ice cream, ok? Strawberry ice cream?”

Anne smiles, despite herself, and laughs. “Strawberry ice cream?”

“Strawberry ice cream and jammies and some old movies, ok? Cary Grant, Audrey and Katharine Hepburn. You’ve got some time, ok? You don’t have to decide right now, _shouldn’t_ decide right now. You might not even ever conceive. So, what we’re going to do right now is relax and take our mind off it at home-”

“Oh!” exclaims Anne, throwing her hand up to her mouth. “Percy! I have to tell Percy, Mary.” The tears come in fresh waves after all. “How do I tell him?”

Mary nods. “You do need to tell him,” she agrees. “Whatever happens, he deserves to know. _But_ ,” she adds, softly. “You don’t need to tell him this minute, ok? Let’s talk it out. We can practice for it, yeah? You like being prepared…”

Anne nods, glum. “Strawberry ice cream?”

“Strawberry ice cream.”

**Monday, November 27, 7:49am**

The air in the towncar tastes stale as it sloughs down Henry’s throat. He rests his head back against the seat, tries not to look at Catalina. His wife hovers by the window, which she’s cracked open. She still wears her sunglasses, looks out the window as if she will see anything new.

“You’re angry” comments Henry, finally. He closes his eyes, but knows from experience how she turns, slowly like a strand of molten cheese caught on the edge of a spoon. Slowly, she will turn, look at him, eyebrows drawing close and relaxing, turning away, speaking:

“I’m not angry,” she replies, predictably, but Henry knows what this means: she’s angry at him but she knows it’s not reasonable to be, so she’s pretending not to be. He knows she’s looking out the window, again, a notion confirmed when he opens his eyes, straightens where he sits.

“What was I supposed to do? We agreed this would be our last try…”

“Doesn’t count,” responds Catalina, picking at her perfect sleeve. He knows how she feels, knows she blames herself for their lack of a big family, and Henry would rather blame her too than deal with any other possibilities, but he also knows that they’re in this together – for better or for worse: that was the promise they made. “I was never even inseminated,” she continues. “It doesn’t count as an attempt and certainly doesn’t count as another failure.”

He flinches. He doesn’t like the word _failure_. Henry stares at her dumbly, at the quarter of her face he can actually see. Mostly it’s only her strawberry waves that he spots, and the edge of her cheek, and he concludes that she must be fighting tears. “Ok,” he replies, turns over his hand to stare at the palm blankly. It’s not a ‘you’re-right’ ok, it’s an ‘I’m-tired-of-fighting-let’s-table-this’ ok and Catalina steals a glance – eyes glossy with the tears he’d expected to see in her eyes. They’re present, but not shed. Her cheeks are dry.

Catalina looks down and away again. He knows she’s not content with his bland response, won’t be until he truly agrees, but she’s tired too. For a moment the silence lapses again. “Do you believe her?” Catalina asks.

“Believe who?”

“Anne Butler – do you believe that she went into the room accidentally?”

Henry turns to look at her, seriously. “What?”

This time Catalina does face him and, though her eyes are glassy, her expression is stern. “Do you believe that it was actually a mistake, or do you think the girl saw an opportunity and took it?”

“An opportunity for what?” demands Henry, shrugging. “An unwanted pregnancy?”

Catalina shakes her head. “People know our name, know we’re rich. If she’s truly desperate, well, maybe it’s worth it to become the mother to your child. There might be some money in it.”

Henry doesn’t like the thought, turns away from her uncomfortably to look out his own window, knows still that Catalina is studying his face all the same. “That seems awfully…devious, Cat, I don’t know-”

Catalina shakes her head. He can tell she’s looking away again. “I don’t know either,” she confesses. He knows her suspicions come from a part of her nature of which she, herself, is not proud, but he knows equally that those suspicions aren’t to be dismissed out of hand. Not every one of them is correct, but enough are spot on as to make Henry pay attention when she says things like this. The idea of Anne’s possible trickery makes him queasy and Henry cracks his own window.

“What was she like, at first?”

Catalina shakes her head. “It was strange,” she muses. “The poor thing was cracking jokes and laughing a great deal, but not humorously…hysterically, but not joyfully. It’s the thing that gives me pause…a reaction like that would be difficult, I should think, to fake.”

“Perhaps she’s a tremendous actress,” joshes Henry, as though this is something to josh about.

Catalina shrugs. “Perhaps.”

Henry chews his lip. “And now what?” He meets Catalina’s curious gaze.

“Now what?”

“With us, you and me. Where do you want to go from here?”

Catalina worries at her sleeve again with her fingers, casts her glance out the window. “This is your plan? I adopt the child, we raise it along with our own daughter as if nothing happened?”

“You don’t like it?”

“I don’t know,” admits Catalina. “It’s practical, yes, but…”

But her pride is stung, Henry knows. This is his wife: dutiful, pragmatic, proud. She is charitable and sharp and utterly undaunted in the face of adversity, but she tests her mettle in feats of the will, often clinging resolutely to her adamantine pride. He, himself, knew well enough that pride could buoy a person long after hope had faded. “I thought you’d approve.”

Catalina nods. “I’m pro-life,” she says. “Of course I approve.” Her words are an approbation: her tone is not. And in any case, that’s all easy for her, he thinks: for someone whose never truly known want. Anne Butler’s decision will be harder.

**Monday, November 27, 10:28am**

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t have.” Anne shrugs, sitting back from the computer a bit so Mary can read over her shoulder. “It’s just…I was curious. I couldn’t _not_ Google them. I had to see what I’m getting involved with.”

“Yikes!” Mary grimaces, points at the picture of a stern, older man. “Is that him? Jeeze, where do I know that face, Anne?”

“Fortunately,” she replies. “That’s a _different_ Henry Pembroke: that’s the former Prime Minister of England. Apparently he’s the longest serving Prime Minister, serving for 25 years.”

“Oh shit,” murmurs Mary. “Any chance they’re related?”

“Yeahhhh,” Anne bites her lip. “I think he’s my Henry’s father.”

“‘ _My_ Henry,’ huh?”

Anne rolls her eyes. “Shut up! You know what I mean…Look at this.” Anne clicks on a link, opening an article.

“Ohhh, is _that_ your Henry? He’s handsome…”

“He is,” admits Anne, biting the inside of her lip. “So hopefully the baby would be, too. But look at the actual article.”

Mary leans down, squinting at the computer screen over her sister’s shoulder, “Prime Minister Pembroke’s Grandson Dies at 52 Days Old.” Mary covers her mouth with her hand. “How awful. That was your Henry’s boy?”

Anne nods. “The article hints that there have been rumors of a series of miscarriages as well and at least one other child who died soon after birth. Out of all of Catalina’s pregnancies, they have only one living child.”

Mary’s quiet, gnawing at her lips. Sitting in a chair near the computer, she takes both Anne’s hands, stilling her, distracting her focus for a moment from the computer screen. “That is truly tragic,” she begins. “And I know that you are someone driven to help other people because you are an idealist, but…The mere fact that bad things have happened to them doesn’t mean that it’s up to you to fix this for them.”

Anne looks away, but she nods. It’s the truth, after all, and Anne can’t ignore that. “You’re right,” she says. “But it doesn’t mean I _shouldn’t_ try to help, either.” She shrugs. “Honestly, Mary, the thing that frightens me more is this: say I decide to keep the baby, say I do that…and it dies, anyway. What then?”

Mary nods slowly. “Then,” she concludes, squeezing Anne’s hands. “You will know that you tried to help and that, despite all that you had to give up, you did everything you could to help both them and your child, ok? Now, what else did you dig up on this family?”

**Tuesday, November 28, 3:19pm**

The moment of dread. Anne knocks on Percy’s door. She and Mary have gone over this a thousand times, but for all that Anne knows what to say, it’s not going to be easy. Especially how he beams when he opens the door and sees her.

“Anne! What a wonderful surprise!” He pulls her inside, kissing her cheek as he does so, closes the door behind her. “I thought for sure you’d be at the library now. Actually, I was about to swing by with some coffee.”

Anne’s smile is taut. She knows her eyes still reflect sadness notwithstanding however when she sees worry splash across his, he grasps her shoulder, “ _What’s wrong?_ ”

She hasn’t even spoken a word, yet, and somehow she’s already mismanaged the moment. She wasn’t supposed to worry him before she’d even told him. ‘ _Make it direct, make it simple,_ ’ she hears Mary’s voice. “Let’s sit down,” she says, pulls him down beside her on the sofa. “You remember I had an appointment with the OBGYN, yesterday?”

“Oh my God, are you ok?” he demands, grasping her by the shoulders. He’s pale as a sheet of paper. “Did they…find something…bad? Is ev-”

“No, no. It’s nothing like that. They mixed me up with someone else and…the doctor artificially inseminated me.”

**Monday, November 27, 11:32am**

Printed papers are scattered across the floor, black and white photographed faces splashed across the pages and surrounded by print. Anne and Mary each clutch a cup of hot cocoa in place of coffee (Mary in solidarity with her suddenly caffeine-free sister ‘ _I might not be technically pregnant yet, but I may as well start weaning myself off of it now, just in case_.’), sit Indian-style on the floor picking through the pages of online articles on the English not-royal family.

“Your Henry’s a bit of a party boy,” Mary comments, sipping at her beverage gingerly.

“There’s…so much here to unpack.” Anne holds one side of her face, shakes her head. “I mean, what happened to his kids, his mom, his brother…It’s awful. No wonder he wants a big family and plenty of distractions, just to help make up for some of what he’s lost.”

Mary nods. “Anne, this is something else to consider. If you do this, you’re involving yourself in…whatever _this_ family drama is and alllll the baggage that comes along with it. Are you sure that’s what you want? Either for yourself or for a kid?”

“No,” Anne admits. “But there’s only so much we can learn from the tabloids and news articles.” She bites her lip. “The limelight just lights things up in queasy color. Our family life isn’t exactly a cake walk, either, it just doesn’t look so bad from the outside because we don’t have the media outside our windows peaking in.” Anne stares into the generous marshmallow topping Mary added to the cocoa, trying to think of a good way to explain her new situation to her own parents. What on earth does one tell a proud, ambitious, traditionally Catholic family about something like this? And what, for that matter, does one neglect to share?

Mary nods. “Then, the only option is to actually meet the Pembrokes, talk with them, see what you think, then.”

Anne nods, too. “I agree.” She pauses, licks her lips. “At least I’ll go into the meeting armed with information. At least…I’ll have a sense of what I’m getting myself into.”

“That’s true,” replies Mary. “But this only tells the most sensational parts of the stories: you have to keep that in mind, too. Make sure your mind is open when you talk to them.”

Anne raises her chin. “Are you saying I jump to conclusions?” she demands.

Mary tilts her head with bemusement. “That’s a silly question. That is _exactly_ what I am saying.”

**Tuesday, November 28, 3:21am**

Percy’s up and pacing. It’s been almost two full minutes and he still hasn’t said anything Anne can make much sense of. He starts, breaks off, gestures. He’s working himself up into something, she knows, and she’s reaching for his inhaler (just in case) when he turns around. She holds it out to him, he waves it off, sits down in the chair opposite her, puts his hands on her knees.

“Are you ok?” he asks. His eyes are intent, set on hers with concern. She realizes, all at once, that he’s not upset for himself so much as he is on her behalf.

Anne nods. “Yeah,” she shrugs. “I mean, I’m…upset and I’m freaked out and I don’t,” she shakes her head, swallows past the choked feeling in her throat. “For once in my _life_ , I don’t know what I’m going to do, but,” she shrugs. She’s not really ok, not in the way he means, but she has never known how to say so. It always sounds weak and Anne has wanted, always, so desperately to be strong that she pushes past the mark at times.

Percy’s gaze is steady, he takes her hands, kneads at them with his. “Ok,” he says, disbelievingly: he knows her well enough to know that she doesn’t _exactly_ mean it, but she’s trying so hard to mean it that he does nothing to disrupt the façade. It is a kindness he has always done her. “Well, I’m right here,” he says, forms a smile that could break her heart. “And we’re going to get through this together, ok? That’s what marriage is all about, right? Whatever you need. I know it’s not easy getting rid of-”

“Getting rid of?” asks Anne, shaking her head, slowly.

“ _Oh_.”

Anne shifts her hands to place them over his. “Perc, when I said I didn’t know what I was going to do…I meant that I didn’t know…what choice I’d make, not that I wasn’t sure… _how_ to take care of it. I haven’t decided, yet, whether I want to keep the baby or not.”

“So you…” Percy licks his lips, pulls his hands away from under hers and stands again. “I, uh,” he rubs the back of his neck, walks around behind the chair and leans against it with his hands, hangs his head. “You, uh, oh man.”

“Percy?”

“Wait, um,” he holds one hand up. “I didn’t mean to be an ass, Anne, I’m so sorry, I just…assumed. I mean, we’re getting married and-”

“I know,” cuts in Anne. “I didn’t just magically forget,” she snaps, standing herself.

“No, I know, it’s just…it’s a lot.”

“I _know!_ Percy, I _know_ that this is a lot and I _know_ that it’s not what we planned or wanted but it’s not black and white either, is it?”

“I’ll pay for it, if it’s-”

“What? No! It’s not anything like that! God, the damn OBGYN will pay for it if that’s the choice I make, but…”

Percy turns away, hugging the back of his neck with both hands. “But you’re Catholic and you’ve been told your whole life that you’ll go to hell if you have an abortion.”

Anne crosses her arms over her chest. It’s true, what he says, and maybe that’s why it cuts her so sharply, but it’s not even _that_ black and white, either. “It’s not only that, Percy, and you know it,” barks Anne.

Percy rolls his neck, turns back to her. “I know,” he admits, feebly, looking at the ground as if defeated. “I know that you’ve always been terrified of being in this position, I’m sorry. I-I don’t want to make it any harder for you than it already is, I just…”

“Marriage will have hiccups, too, Percy. I know you’re standing there thinking, ‘We need to start our lives right,’ and that’s true, but when we stand up there we say the words ‘for better, for worse’ and, yes, we’re not married yet, we’ve made no such vows yet, but this is for worse, Perc. Please, don’t fail me at the first test, I-“

“But this isn’t the first test, is it, Annie? It’s not even the second or the third. We’ve been through so many hurdles! Why can’t we just give ourselves this, this little space in time, so that we start out with a foundation that’s stronger than ever?”

“Will our foundation be stronger than ever, Percy, if we start out by making big decisions impulsively?”

He doesn’t answer and, for the time being, it’s answer enough. He’s right, though, of course. There are terrible ways to start a marriage, but carrying another man’s baby while standing at the altar has to be close to the top of the list. She always felt badly for poor St. Joseph, but now she feels a surge of pity for the Virgin Mary. Anne’s trying, now, but she still doesn’t have a good grasp on how you tell your fiancée that you’re pregnant with someone else’s baby, and still have never once cheated on him. At least, she thanks heaven, doubt on that point doesn’t seem ever to have crossed Percy’s mind but, she feels confident, it will. At some point, it _will_.

**Monday, November 27, 2:39pm**

“Ok, but seriously,” says Mary, lying on the floor sorting all the articles into a timeline while Anne lies on the couch with another sheath of fresh papers on the Pembroke family, still warm from the printer. “How _are_ you going to tell our family? Do you wanna go over it?”

Anne is quiet, presses the edges of the stack together to even up how the paper lays. “I’m not going to tell them, at all,” she says, finally. “Until I’ve made up my mind. Except George. George I’m going to tell.”

Mary doesn’t question this, just nods, and goes back to sorting. They do not bring it up again. 

**Thursday, November 30, 12:13pm**

_Ding!_ Henry reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. An unknown number has sent him a text.

_Do you have my coat? I have yours. Sorry to keep it so long._

Anne Butler, he realizes: it must be. Henry isn’t exactly in the habit of leaving stray articles of clothing lying around or collecting those of others without reason. In Anne Butler’s case, however, he had a reason. In fact, her jacket is hung up in the closet by the door even now. Henry is about to respond when he gets another text.

_Maybe we could do a prisoner exchange,_ she suggests _. I think the three of us should meet again, get to know each other under less stressful circumstances. Is there a time that works for you two?_

He types as quickly as he can. _We are absolutely available any time that works for you. Give me a time and place; we’re there._ He hits send, adds as an afterthought: _I’ll bring your coat._

_Good_ , she replies. _It wouldn’t be much of a swap if you didn’t. ;D How about 11:30 tomorrow at Richmond Park?_

Henry doesn’t check his calendar. He’s got stuff, but he’ll move it. This is more important. _We’ll be there_ , he promises. _Until tomorrow, Miss Butler_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry VII reigned for 24 years and, since Prime Minister terms last for 5, I gave him 25 years as Prime Minister.
> 
> Strawberries were amongst Anne Boleyn's favorite foods <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Butler…is _not_ realistic. But he _is_ in her apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joan Parker = Jane Parker ;D Too many Janes hahaha

**Thursday, November 30, 10:02am**

Joan stands with her hands on her hips, glances around the apartment she shares with the two Butler girls. “Guys! Who ate all the strawberry ice cream?”

Anne peeks around her door. “Oh…was some of that yours?”

Joan shrugs. “Try the cartons that had ‘JP’ written on them?”

Mary also peeks around Anne’s door. “Sorry.” Mary pops out of Anne’s room and walks over to her purse. “I’ll pay you back-”

Joan rolls her eyes. “It’s not about that! I mean, it _is_ about that…too, but it’s also about the fact that I stock the freezer with ice cream so I can wake up and eat ice cream for breakfast if I really want to. And…I really want to.” She arches her brows, one hand still on her hip, the other gesturing to emphasize her point. Joan Parker has always been one for _upholding_ _rights_ and _keeping the record straight_ , which makes the matter of the ice cream much more pressing than simply…a lack of a particular flavor.

Anne steps out of her bedroom. “Joan, Mary, look, it was me. I ate the ice cream. And I definitely owe you way more than ice cream because it made me feel all right when I…wasn’t in a great place.”

Joan cocks her head, narrows her eyes. It looks like a defensive gesture but her friends know her well enough to realize that she’s _trying_ to look inviting. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” Anne nods. “Look, George is gonna be here any minute now…Can I tell you both at the same time?”

Joan gasps. “ _What_!” she exclaims. “Geo-George is…coming…here…any minute now?”

Mary shrugs. “Yeah. Is that…bad?”

Joan shrugs, backs up. “Nope, nope, it’s…great…actually. It’s so…great. I gotta put on more clothes, bye!” Turning, Joan rushes into her room, closing the door behind her, and is confronted by her full-length mirror. Out in the hall she can hear the Butler girls chatting quizzically, but she’ll deal with that _later_. Honestly, George Butler is, Joan will tell anyone, her _curse_. He’s good looking, has the great misfortune of _knowing_ it, and he’s…glib. He can make her laugh, laugh till she turns bright red, till she can’t catch her breath. In fact, she finds herself blushing…a _lot_ around him: a fact he seems to find delightful and which she…hates.

Her little sister likes to tell her that Joan has a crush on him, but Joan considers this to be absurd. He’s much too messy, much too loud, and much too…generally irritating to be crush-worthy. When Joan falls for someone (she’s never been in love, she admits that, her track record with guys…isn’t that great), it’s going to be someone, well, rich. Joan is much too practical for anything else and, sure, she admits that’s super mercenary of her, but Joan likes to think she’s realistic. She considers it one of her virtues. And George Butler…is _not_ realistic.

But he _is_ in her apartment. There’s a sudden burst of sound – loud talking, a few squeals (he is swinging at least one of his sisters around, Joan can tell – rolls her eyes) – and laughter, such laughter. He is one of those people whom laughter follows wherever he goes. You know when he’s there simply because gales of it peal from the spot. Joan sinks against her door, stares at the ripped jeans and baggy tee that she put on happily mere minute before, suddenly _hates_ them. “No, no, nope,” mutters Joan, peeling the fabric off – hopping with one leg still in the jeans, one still out – to her dress. Leggings, a crimson sweater dress, hair _down_ , red lipstick. Jane smirks at her reflection, winks, rolls her eyes – thinks: _What am I, fourteen?_ – and turns to her door. There’s a knock.

“Come in!”

“It’s Mary! You ready? Anne’s got some…news…”

Joan feels a stab of guilt for running away a moment ago. She should have stuck with the other outfit and stayed with her friend, instead. She rolls her eyes, again (a common expression of hers) and slinks towards the door. “Yup,” she says, feels a twinge of embarrassment for how Mary clearly tries _not_ to notice that she’s now much more dressed up. _Own it_ , thinks Joan, walking out into the hallway. She hates the butterflies in her stomach when she spots George laughing with Anne in their living room, rolls her eyes yet again, and chooses the seat as far away from George as she can get.

**Friday, December 1, 7:13am**

TEXT MESSAGES

**Henry Pembroke to Anne Butler**

You said you were getting married, right?

**Henry**

Why don’t you bring your fiancé, too? It would be good for all four of us to meet.

**Henry**

What’s the name?

**Anne**

Ok, he’s in. His name is Percy.

**Henry**

Perfect, we’ll see you both at 11:30 at Richmond Park.

**Anne**

See you, then!

**Thursday, November 30, 10:18am**

For once in his life, George Butler is speechless. Annie’s explained it all, but this…pregnancy thing still doesn’t seem to make any sense to him.

Joan beats him to a statement. Primly she crosses one leg over the other, argumentatively she lifts her chin, and all at once he realizes the girl is _seething_. “You gonna sue? I’d _sue their asses off_ , I’d own that sorry excuse for a clinic by the time I was done, I’d-“

Anne holds up a hand. “Joan, it’s…ok. I _am_ going to sue…just as soon as I figure out what to say to Dad.” She shrugs, looks at him. “George?” 

Her black eyes are pleading and George knows she wants desperately for him to say something, anything, probably, but he feels like there’s something jammed down his windpipe, like language is a meaningless concept, and breath more foreign still. Still, this is his sister and she needs him to say something. He clears his throat, chokes a little, clears his throat again. “What exactly,” he begins. “Is it that you want to tell Dad…exactly?” He realizes only later that he’s said “exactly” twice in the same sentence. He doesn’t care.

Anne leans away, slightly, raises her thumb to her lips and chews her cuticle. “I don’t know.”

“So, you…haven’t decided.” This doesn’t surprise George. Once Anne makes up her mind, she is an unstoppable force, but she is also, up until that point, one of the most indecisive people he has ever met when it comes to things like this. Her impulsivity is limited the heat of the moment and to small choices that, she believes, won’t impact other people. Sometimes those are the largest reaching choices of all, he knows, but this…this is something else altogether.

“I’ve thought about it!” she cries and George nods. He’d had no doubt of that.

“ _Obsessed_ , more likely,” he replies, quirking the hint of a smile. Anne laughs, his smile broadens somewhat with relief. “Have you made a pro/con list yet?”

Anne bites her lips. “I can’t tell if you’re teasing me or not.”

“Neither can I.” George breaks into the first real smile since the news, but he still feels uneasy, thinking of how his sister must be feeling, right now. It’s always been the three of them: the Butler siblings against the world and no one really knows Anne or Mary better than he does. For this reason, even though she’s calm, smiling softly, he is confident of her inner turmoil, and he wishes he could do something to fix it. He does know a way to help: normalcy, cheerfulness. Too Anne, laughter always has been the best balm. “Hey,” he says, taking her hand. “Wanna play scrabble?” He arches his brows, plies her with a teasing grin that always worked in their childhood – and still has a certain magic, that way, today.

Anne dips her chin, squeezes his hand. “Yeah, actually, I’d love to.”

George glances at Mary, at Joan, grins. “Well, what’re you waiting for? Let’s play!”

Joan starts to protest but George shoots her a look and she relents, goes with Mary to get Anne’s favorite board game.

George turns to Anne, arches his brows. “You won’t win…this time. I’m going to crush you.”

Anne leans close, puts one hand on his shoulder. “Oh, little brother,” she replies, shaking her head. “I think the word you’re searching for is _pulverize_. And that,” she adds, primly, sitting back. “Is why _I_ am going to win.”

**Friday, December 1, 11:07am**

“Breathe in, breathe out,” Anne murmurs to herself, staring at herself in the mirror. She’s wearing black (she usually does), but she’ll admit it, she’s a little dressed up. Richmond Park is a shi shi area – which is why she suggested it – and the Pembrokes are shi shi people. She reproaches herself slightly for her intimidation. _They aren’t any better than you are!_ But her indignation at it doesn’t make the intimidation any less real.

Anne sighs, smooths the front of her dress. It’s a slim black midi-sheath dress that shows off her figure (if she goes through with this pregnancy, she has limited time to wear these kinds of dresses and so, she figures, she better get as much use out of them as she can before that time), high-waisted with a high neckline to match. Henry has her jean jacket, which he’s bringing and she’ll put that on when she’s reunited with it, which will tone down her look as though she casually wears velvet ( _Maybe I need to start_ , she thinks running a hand down the luxurious front of her dress). Its bell sleeves are three quarter length and pleat softly at the end where she tugs at them, absently, gnaws on her cheek, and then adds silver statement earrings and a silver ring on her first finger.

“There,” she says, proudly. Sure, Catalina Pembroke looks like a model, but Anne’s dressed a bit like one, now, and it makes her feel a little more confident facing them.

Anne puts Henry’s jacket back on (it’ll do till she arrives at Richmond Park). She straightens its shoulders – much too broad for her – over her own. “It’ll do,” she says. “It’ll do.” Her stomach tightens and she thinks, again, that she’s basing her future on a few meetings with strangers, and tries not to tremble. “It’ll do.”

She goes to answer the knock at the apartment door.

“Ready to go?” Percy’s voice in her doorway is soft, gentle: less like a nagging sensation than a calm certainty. It’s one of the things Anne loves about him, though she took some time to warm up to it. But then, that’s how Percy is. He takes his time. He’s never in a rush, and Anne often wishes she were more like that, herself.

“ _Ready_.”

“You nervous?” Anne leans against him and Percy takes her hand in his, kisses her forehead. “Yeah, me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was more but it got way too unwieldy to edit altogether so that'll be coming eventually, but I thought I'd go ahead and post this ;D


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Round and round and round the memories swirl – memories that, she knows, haunt her sister as well, these days. They skitter around her, present everywhere she goes, and peck at her from all sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: abortion (esp in the flashback parts: if you don't want to read those but want a summary of what happened, i'll include that in the end notes)
> 
> François Leroy = François I of France  
> Walter Carey = William Carey  
> Wilson Stafford = William Stafford

**Monday, December 11, 2017, 11:23am**

They all sit anxiously outside: her siblings, her fiancé, the Pembrokes. Anne knows this, but she needs a moment to herself, needs to stand, shaking, in front of the mirror, staring down at the piece of plastic in her hand that says: _Pregnant_. She’s going to take ten minutes, exactly ten minutes to herself and then she’ll confront them.

It’s pink, the pregnancy test, and she’s put in mind of Pepto-Bismal; makes a disgusted noise at the back of her throat.

They’re all waiting out there, waiting to hear her news, but she doesn’t want to tell them. Anne puts a hand on her flat stomach, closes her eyes and tries to picture the tiny being that’s beginning its life there. It doesn’t seem real to her, now, although its something she’s always known: that every person she has ever known has started out that way: a cell or two that somehow became a person. It’s unreal. Anne steps back, rests her head against the wall behind her, stares into the mirror unseeingly. She wears a cozy auburn sweater and black leggings. Her black hair is caught up in a messy (though stylish) bun, and she had let the hair around her face hang down to frame it. Faintly, she’s grateful today for the veil it forms. She can’t think of a better day for a bit of a barrier between herself and the rest of the world.

The person in that mirror, staring out at her, doesn’t look like a mother (Anne thinks: what does a mother look like?), she looks like a girl.

She looks scared.

Anne glances away, wraps her arms around herself. She won’t cry. Not today. She’s determined not to cry. Instead she’s going to step out into that room, where they’re all waiting, and she’s going to tell them what she’s learned.

**Friday, December 1, 2017, 11:22am**

Anne had promised herself that as soon as they arrived, she’d take off Henry’s jacket, but it’s colder outside than she had planned on (she should have known: it _is_ December, after all) and she was counting on her jean jacket.

“You look _freezing_. Are you sure you don’t want my coat?” Percy unzips his coat but Anne grasps his hand, stops him in the act.

“I’m fine,” she maintains stubbornly, tries to still her teeth that, admittedly, want to chatter. “It’s warmer than you’d think.”

“You know, I have suits and have worn suit jackets, before. I know they’re not that warm.”

“Still fine!” Anne flashes him a glance, squares her shoulders, hugs the jacket a little closer. “We should have arranged a spot to meet.”

“We’re ten minutes early,” points out Percy, putting an arm around her shoulder and she snuggles greedily into his body heat. “They might just…not be here yet.”

“We’re _eight_ minutes early, actually.”

Percy chuckles. “I stand corrected.”

“Ok, I’m gonna text them.”

“Ok.”

“What do I say?”

Percy shrugs. “Umm, ‘Where would you like to meet?’”

Anne nods. “That’s good!” When Percy laughs, she pokes him. “Shut up.” He kisses the top of her head.

**Friday, December 1, 2017, 11:23am**

_Ding!_

“That’s your phone.” Catalina opens Henry’s coat and takes it out of his pocket before he can protest. “She wants to know where to meet.”

“No need,” Henry responds, pulling his coat closed. “I see them.”

“Where? Oh, I see. Is she wearing your jacket?” Catalina glances at the folded jean jacket Henry’s carrying. “Do you think that means that’s her only coat? Poor thing.”

At least, she considers, that much would ensure that their offer will be accepted. Catalina licks her lips, feels a flash of self-directed irritation as some part of her brain whispers: _Maybe that’s why she walked into that room to have this child. She can’t afford a winter coat_. Catalina puts Henry’s phone into his hand and strides ahead to meet them as though she can leave the thoughts behind her.

**October 2004**

Mary’s hand shakes as she clasps it over her mouth. Streaked with tears, her face is a picture of misery, marked by long stripes of black mascara. Her shoulders shudder with the tears, but she tries to hold in the sobs as Anne rubs her back soothingly. “What am I going to do?” she whispers, voice little more than a squeak. “What on earth am I going to _do_?”

Resting her head against Mary’s, Anne rocks soothingly but her sister is lost to her, caught in her fear. Anne wishes she had an answer for her, but there is none, none save whatever decision Mary herself makes. At thirteen, Anne is suppressing tears of her own, but she tries to be soothing. She doesn’t know what else to do.

“If our parents find out-”

“Don’t worry about them right now,” insists Anne, seriously, leaning forward to look her sister in the eye. “Ok? This isn’t about them, ok, it’s about _you_.”

Mary laughs. She’s fourteen and desolate. Her laughter is not merry. “Isn’t it? It’s _always_ about them. Always. And when they find out, that’ll be about them, too: about how I betrayed them, betrayed the family name, about how it will look on _them_ when their friends hear that Tom Butler’s little girl is fourteen and pregnant. It’ll be about how no one will back a man who stands for traditional family values when he’s got a knocked up teen at home, it’ll be about how I destroyed this family’s hopes, shamed them in front of their friends. It’ll be about them just like it was about them when I failed Spanish, and just like it was about them when I fell off my horse that summer they thought I was going to be an equestrian. It’s always about them, Anne. Always.”

Anne swallows hard, squeezes Mary’s hand and presses her forehead against Mary’s. “Then let’s not tell them. Not yet, maybe not ever. What do _you_ want?”

Mary starts to cry again.

**Friday, December 1, 2017, 12:02am**

Mary kicks her feet, lying flat on her stomach. She’s giggling, biting her fingertips while leaning her head against the phone. “What’re you wearing, Walt?”

“Mary! I’m at work!” says the voice on the phone.

Mary rolls over. “I’m not. I’m at home, alone, on my bed…thinking of you. And what you’re wearing.”

She listens to the soft exhalation, almost a laugh, on the other side of the line that comes with a smile. “ _Mary_ -”

“Are you thinking of me?”

“I can’t…do this…right now.”

“You should come over!”

“Mary-”

“Mmmm, you know…it’s hot in here. I think I’ll just…slip out of this skirt.” It flutters to the floor like sheets over a bed.

“Oh my God,” Walter murmurs. She can picture him, red-faced, turning to face the wall so no one will see his new…condition.

“If only you were here. If you were wondering…I look _hot_ , today. Tight shirt, red lipstick, flippy mini-skirt…Oh, wait. Nix the skirt. You’re missing out.”

He laughs, whispers, “You look hot everyday.”

Mary giggles. “I _know_ ,” she replies, rolling over. “Oof, you know, I’m just gonna take off this shirt. Wow, that’s _so_ much better…What should I do about this lacy bra, though?” she asks, plucking at the strap. “It’s that black one you like so much…Come over, won’t you?”

“Look, I’m about to go into a meeting with your _father_ , I-”

“Ugh! Fine! Bye!” Mary pulls the phone away from her face, hits the end button – hears him exclaiming her name on the other end and ignores him. A moment later, her phone is ringing again. _Walter Carey_ reads her screen, flashes up a picture of the two of them – Walter holding her from behind. Over their shoulder, the sun is setting over the ocean. “Nope,” she says, hitting the ignore button. She sits up on her bed, alone, in only her sexy underwear, and sighs. She wants to think about anything, anything except what has been screeching through her mind ever since she heard Anne’s news. Round and round and round the memories swirl – memories that, she knows, haunt her sister as well, these days. They skitter around her, present everywhere she goes, and peck at her from all sides.

“No!” yells Mary, hopping off the bed. She kicks uselessly at her discarded skirt and turns back to her phone. Mary chews her lip before sliding to her favorite contacts. She taps Wilson Stafford.

“Hey,” she says when he picks up. “You off, today? Cool! Want to get lunch at that Chinese place at, like…about now? Great! I’ll see you, soon!” Mary squirms back into her clothes and grabs her keys as she heads out the door.

**Friday, December 1, 2017, 11:28am**

“What is your astrological sign, Anne?” Henry’s question is delivered with the same tone that he might use to ask for a file at work. They’ve found a nice restaurant to have lunch together and he sits across from her, beside his wife, smiling.

Anne tilts her head, surprised. “What?”

Henry shrugs. “You know…your zodiac. I’m a cancer.”

Percy chokes on his water. “Sorry…just…out of the context, that’s quite a thing to say about yourself.”

Henry glares, returns his gaze to Anne. “I’m serious. What is it?”

“Oh, um, I…uh…sagittarius, I think.”

“What’s your birthday?”

“May 21,” she replies, takes a sip of her water.

“That’s Gemini,” he replies. “Catalina, actually, is a Sagittarius.”

Catalina busies herself sipping her drink. When she puts it down, Anne thinks it’s bemusement hovering around her eyes.

Anne thinks back to years of giggling with her sister, reading astrology books, pointing, ‘ _Looks that’s me! That’s you!_ ’ She wonders if she ever once read the right one.   “Oh,” she responds, a little bashful, decides to own it. “Well, then I guess I can at least say that I have a few Sagittarian qualities. Apparently, I’ve been reading the wrong horoscope.” This doesn’t surprise her as much as it should: she never paid as much attention to those as, obviously, she could have. The glaringly obvious dates, for example. It was only a bit of fun, something she never took seriously, because it was always close but never entirely accurate…which, she decides, probably makes sense, given that she was reading the wrong one. She smirks.

Henry looks vaguely offended, as if she has just told him it’s a stupid question – it’s not, he’s trying to get acquainted – and he shakes his head. “It’s a Gemini date,” he continues. “Though, I’ll admit, on a cusp. Taurus.”

“So you believe in astrology?” inquires Anne, with interest.

Henry shrugs, plucks the side of his plate. “My mother loved it,” he says, finally, smiles like that doesn’t hurt him to admit but his eyes betray the secret. “She taught us all about it. She drew up whole natal charts for each of us. Our father, he would,” Henry chuckles. “He is _not_ a believer, thought it was a great deal of hogswash, and maybe it is, but…” Henry’s smile is bright, a head tilt, one brow arches. “It remains telling. It can be off, but it’s almost never entirely _wrong_. Besides, now I know your birthday,” he adds with a chuckle. “And you? Do you believe?”

Anne shrugs. “I clearly don’t know enough about it to say,” she laughs. “Maybe you could teach me? I take it…your natal charts were revealing?”

Henry shifts, smirks, glances at his wife, who replies by shaking her head ruefully. “They were.”

Anne glances at Catalina. “What about you? Do you believe?”

“No.” Catalina does not pause, does not think.

“My wife’s beliefs are…strict.”

“ _Disciplined_ ,” says Catalina with a taut smile.

“And what is your belief system?” inquires Anne.

“Roman Catholic.”

“Oh,” Anne smiles. “So am I!”

Catalina’s smile broadens. “Good,” she says. “Then you won’t kill the baby.”

She feels like she’s been slapped, although she’s not entirely surprised. The wind is gone from her and Anne rankles. She wants to stand, to put a finger in Catalina’s face and tell her off…but Percy’s hand covers hers and Anne lets out her breath, shakes her head. _She’s not worth it_ , Percy’s eyes say. Anne nods. She has no desire to get kicked out of this restaurant and she’s here to learn about the Pembrokes, anyway, isn’t she? What could be more revealing? Anne bites her lip, looks back to Henry, who she finds is glaring at his wife. “Umm,” she begins. “So, your father, how did he react to the natal charts?”

Henry’s attention is arrested at the word _father_. It seems to hover between them, suspended in the air as though caught in a dew-strung web. He shifts his silverware as it sits on the table, runs the edge of his fingers against the end of the utensils. “Oh, he indulged her. My father adored my mother like no other and any time she had some fancy…he would indulge her. It’s not as if she didn’t earn it, though. My father…is not an easy man to love.”

Anne absorbs this information, hands folded in her lap, she cannot stop herself from biting out the question: “And you, Henry? What kind of father would you make?”

“He is a most generous father,” says Catalina. “We have one daughter and, I assure you, my Henry sees that his ‘pearl of the world’ wants for nothing: love, attention, gifts, anything…” Catalina reaches for his hand, takes it in her own. “My Henry is the soul of generosity. Any new child would enjoy these same benefits, I assure you.”

Anne smiles, feels a bit warmer in the pit of her stomach as she imagines a golden child giggling as this father throws it up, catches it…Anne closes her eyes. That’s it, isn’t it? These are two parents, united, who can give this baby the best in life and want it so dearly…Sure, their beliefs might be strict, but so is her own family’s. She knows all about that and she didn’t grow up to be an awful person. Anne doesn’t want to thrust an innocent child into a golden cage or benign neglect: if she has this child, she wants warmth and gentleness and sunshine for it, and she sees that radiating from the golden couple across from her. She looks at Percy, who smiles at her, squeezes her hand under the table. “And you, Catalina? I know this puts you in an awkward position. How do you feel about all of this?”

Surprise dawns in her face and Anne wonders when the last time someone asked after her emotions – and truly meant it – must have been. She does not shift or fidget, like her husband, but rather grows still, incredibly still, as though she is a rabbit who has just been spotted by a fox, or as if she is a scientist studying an extraordinary butterfly. Even her breath seems to still for a moment. “I confess, I had wanted to carry our next child, myself, but that was clearly not God’s plan for me or for the baby and, either way, I should be glad of another little one. It has been too long since I’ve held a baby and I confess I do long for another child.”

**October 2004**

It’s a cold day, too cold for October, but November lurks around the corner, hovering like a panther: sinewy and black with haunting yellow eyes. They stand around the corner from their destination and Anne has her mouth shut tight to keep her teeth from chattering. Mary stops, abruptly.

“You’re sure about this? It’s not too late,” says Anne. “We can still walk away. You can still change your mind.”

Cold rain spits at them, but when Mary pulls up her hood, Anne wonders if it’s because of the weather…or to help disguise herself and to help keep things just a little more distant. Her voice is hollow. “I wish he were here.”

Anne doesn’t need to guess who she means: she’s talking about François Leroy, her popular French boyfriend…the one who pressured her into sex and then pressured her into this decision as soon as she told him she might be pregnant. Mary had told Anne how he’d gruffly shoved the money into her hand. ‘ _Get it taken care of_ ,’ he’d hissed. ‘ _And don’t tell anyone. I don’t need this right now._ ’ He didn’t return another phone call after that, except to tell her again and again and again to get rid of it, but Anne doesn’t think that was what Mary wants, not really. François doesn’t care about that, though. He is an asshole and Mary deserves so much better, but still she loves him, even now that he’s abandoned her to deal with this trauma for some Swiss miss with long, long legs. Mary thinks if she gets rid of it, he’ll come back to her. Anne isn’t so sure.

Anne squeezes Mary’s hand. “It doesn’t matter what François wants. What do _you_ want? You don’t have to do this.”

Mary’s eyes are rimmed with red. She bites her lips. “I want my life back. I don’t want to be scared, anymore.” But there’s something she’s not saying and Anne has to bite her tongue to keep from pressing her.

There are protestors everywhere around the abortion clinic. People with signs that read, ‘ _We’re all God’s children_ ,’ and ‘ _Natural Birth, Natural Death_ ,’ and there are people there, protesting the protestors, with signs of their own saying things like, ‘ _My Body, My Choice_ ,’ and ‘ _Live Free._ ’ Everyone is talking all at once, protestors yelling at each other, others trying to talk to Mary and Anne. Everyone pushes pamphlets and flyers at them. Anne clings to Mary’s arm as they dodge the people popping up like whack-a-moles.

For all the noise, however, the people that haunt Anne are the ones that don’t speak at all. Kneeling with their rosaries, they press at beads and gaze after the girls with big, sad eyes. Anne, Catholic Anne, feels a jolt of sickness that wells deep inside of her, thinks of the nuns back at school in their pristine habits, their own rosaries caught on a chord at their side. Squaring her shoulders, she puts a protective arm around Mary.

“Let’s go,” whispers Anne, Mary nods, and they step inside the clinic.

**Friday, December 1, 12:37pm**

They’re seated at a table, Henry beside Catalina and across from the other couple. It’s like a bizarre double date…with strangers…one of whom may be the future mother of his child. Henry pretends to be absorbed in his menu, pretends that he’s only reading and not thinking about the true ramifications of this situation, of the possibility of the fact that, if she doesn’t like them, she might not go through with the pregnancy and they might loose yet another child. Henry’s fist clenches. He likes to be liked; _loves_ to be liked, in fact. It’s a compulsion. The idea of being loathed always horrifies, _distracts_ him, but the stakes have never been so high. Henry feels fenced in, suffocated, as though he’s been forced into a box and left in the dark.

Across from him, the fiancé – Percy, was it? – steals a glance at him, a glance Henry can’t quite read. Henry tries to smile, but he’s not sure the effort is entirely successful. Percy shifts his glance quickly to his menu again.

It’s Catalina who begins the conversation, again. Her movements are starchy as she sets down the menu, folds her hands in her lap. “Miss Butler-”

“Oh, please call me Anne.”

“As you like. Anne, please allow me to apologize for my behavior when last we met. I was, you see, very upset-”

Anne waves a hand. “It’s ok. I was upset, too. It was…not a wonderful beginning. But that’s in the past now and I hope we can start…fresh.”

Henry nods. “As to that,” he says, sliding his hand across to Catalina’s, slipping it into her own. She closes her fingers around his – warm and comforting. Feeling reassured, he smiles. “There is something specific my wife and I wanted to take this opportunity to say. Supposing you choose to go forward with the pregnancy, we are very aware of the…hardship and distress it may cause the both of you. Because of that, if you would like, we thought perhaps we could make some financial reparation. In fact, we would like to offer to pay your expenses for the duration of the pregnancy.”

**November 2004**

Mary’s crying is quiet, but lying in a bed near hers, it isn’t difficult for Anne to hear. Softly, Anne creeps into bed with her, wraps her arms around her sister from behind. “Shhh,” she soothes, nuzzles her face into Mary’s blond tresses. Mary’s fingers tighten around Anne’s arm in a familiar squeeze, and for a moment they lie together quietly.

Mary raises her hand, wipes at her face. “I’m scared, Annie,” she admits, shakes her head. “Am I going to hell?”

Anne tightens her grip around her sister. “ _No!_ ” she exclaims, a fierce whisper. “You’re a good person, Mary. You’re not going to hell, not for this, not for anything, I promise, ok? You’ve always been good. You did what you thought was best when you had very limited options, ok?” Anne pauses. The moments tick by. “Do you regret it?” she asks quietly, quietly as she can, and she knows Mary is momentarily glad that Anne can’t see her face. Mary shifts in bed, but doesn’t turn towards her.

“I…It’s not that I wanted to be a teen mom or anything, Anne, I just…I regret that it wasn’t my choice. I regret that I’ll never be able to say for sure what I would have done, what I wanted, because I caved to the pressures…François, our parents, what people would say and think…I just did what I thought everyone else wanted…and I’ll never know…” Mary squeezes Anne’s arm. “Promise me something, Annie?”

Anne nods, knows Mary can feel it since their heads are so close together.

“Annie, promise me you’ll never let someone else choose your destiny.”

“I promise,” swore Anne. “And, Mary? Promise me the same.”

Mary rolls over to look her sister in the eye. Her smile is soft and sad, but her eyes are determined behind the tears. “I _promise_.”

**Friday, December 1, 12:38pm**

Anne’s mouth falls open. She realizes that she’s staring, realizes that she most certainly cuts an unflattering image, but she’s caught in the momentum of the instant and can’t break out of it long enough to shut her mouth. It’s Percy’s warm fingers curling around hers, the weight of his eyes on her own, that bring her back. Anne smiles absently, clasps her other hand over his, sees the question in his gaze and knows that the choice is hers. She also knows this isn’t easy for him. Anne rubs her thumb across the back of his hand, smiles softly at him, before turning back to the Pembrokes.

“That’s…incredibly generous,” she begins, feels star-struck like it’s unreal. “But it’s maybe _too_ generous. I mean, if things proceed with the baby, I think it would be fitting that you perhaps accept financial responsibility for the child and…whatever is required for it…medically, but you are in no way bound to either of us outside of that.” She could use that help, they both could, but Anne is proud and, besides that, she’s not about to be bought. It’s _her_ choice: not theirs.

Catalina speaks up, directing her question towards Percy. “Do you feel the same way?”

Percy arches his brows, licks his lips. “I do. Of course, I’m deeply…touched by the offer, but it’s completely unnecessary.”

“Is it?” Catalina glances down, back up again. “This is a terrible disruption of your lives, of course. As it would alter and impact so many aspects of your lives, it seems to us only right that we should compensate you accordingly. Of course,” she adds. “We hope you will both take some time and carefully consider the offer.” She pauses. “Additionally, we will be suing the physicians and invite you to join us. It is important to us that no one else suffer from the same awful mistake that has so impacted all four of our lives.”

Percy’s brows furrow, he leans slightly forward, sits back, and Anne puts a hand over his. His discomfort is plain, but then, Percy isn’t used to being considered a charity case. Up until recently, he was (not _Pembroke_ rich but) rich enough. Now, he struggles to put gas in his car. And she knows it feels cheap to him to dream of accepting monetary compensation for something like this, but she also knows the offer must tempt him and she can’t blame him for that, just as she knows that for all the temptation, he’s equally insulted by the offer. She knows that _generous_ isn’t the word he would use, but he’s making nice, forcing a smile he doesn’t feel, because they mean well. They were wronged, too, and they’re just trying to help.

Anne reaches out to touch him, to put her hand in his, feels the tension go out of them. He turns towards her, forms a more genuine smile and her own is a reassurance. _We’re ok_.

**Friday, December 1, 2017, 12:41pm**

“ _Whoa_ ,” breathes Wilson Stafford (who, for the record, detests his full name). His eyes are wide saucers of astonishment. “That’s…” Absently, he picks at the contents of his bowl with his chopsticks. “That’s a lot to take in.”

Mary nods. “Yeah, but it’s a secret, remember?” She knows she doesn’t need to remind him, knows he will be discreet, but having told Anne’s secret to someone else, she feels the need to say it for herself. Anne would neither mind nor be surprised that Mary confided in Will, of course, Mary knows this – Mary tells him _everything_ , after all – but it still feels like a breach of trust, even if it’s something she needs to get off her chest.

Will shakes his head. “I have no idea how you’re ever supposed to make a choice like that.” He bites his lip, looks across the table at Mary. All at once, revelation flashes through his eyes and he reaches across the table to touch her hand. For a moment, Mary stays still. His hand is warm, comforting. If there is one person Mary trusts will never judge her, it’s Will, but…

Mary pulls her hand away, shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about it, Will,” she mutters. “I just…It does bring it all back up, again, but more than anything now I feel ashamed, disappointed in myself and I wish, like I _always_ wish, that I were someone else, someone better. Do…do you ever feel like that, Will?”

Will draws his hand back across the table, stares down at his palm as though some answer might be found there. “Yeah,” he replies, and his voice is raw. He looks back to her, smiles sadly. “All the time.”

Mary nods, wraps her arms around herself and rubs at her shoulders. “Wow, this lunch got heavy, huh?” she shakes her head. “But really, I don’t want to talk about it, my past…yet. I will, sometime but…not yet. Is that ok?”

“Of course it’s ok, Mare.” He shrugs, “And whenever that changes, I’m right here…” he shakes his head, pushes his bowl across the table at her. “In the mean time, you really need to try this. _Incredible_.”

Giggling, Mary pokes her chopsticks into his bowl, draws out some noodles and eats them. “Oh my _God_!” she exclaims, putting a hand over her mouth as she grins. “Why don’t we come here more often?”

“Oh, yeah,” his voice drips with sarcasm as he leans forward, grinning. “Once a week is just _not_ enough.”

Mary laughs, as much because he’s teasing, as because she wants desperately to laugh. “I love you, Wilson Stafford,” she teases.

When he chuckles, his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His mouth is oddly firm, his eyes like liquid, when he says, “You, too, Mare.”

**Friday, December 1, 2017, 12:48pm**

VOICEMAIL

**Walter Carey to Mary Butler**

Hey, darling, it’s me. Look, I, um, I’m so sorry about earlier. Couldn’t be sorrier, truly. Let me make it up to you? Let me take you out some place fancy, show you off a little, because I’m truly the luckiest guy in America. You know me, I just get, um, I’m focused. But today I was focused on the wrong things. I should be focused on you. Yeah…Call me back? I love you. Ok, talk to you, soon. Bye.

**Friday, December 1, 1:56pm**

Anne leans against Percy as they walk back towards the car. “Thanks for today,” she says, softly. “It meant a lot that you were there.”

He wraps an arm around her. “Did it?” he glances down, away, kicks at a pebble. “You know-” he sighs, licks his lips, and Anne straightens to look at him. They both come to stand still. “Uh, when we first got together…my prospects,” he winces, glances at his hands. “I looked a lot better off, _was_ a lot better off…financially. You should have that to lean on, you should have-”

Anne shakes her head, reaches up to touch his face. His eyes are searching beneath the chestnut curls, and the light seems to glint off his orbs like glass. “I just want you.” Percy leans in, rests his brow against hers and it’s comforting, that feeling: his arms around her, his breath mingled with hers. When he inevitably pulls away, she hates that the moment has to end.

“I just mean, Anne…No one would blame you if you took the money.”

Anne shrugs. “I don’t care what anyone thinks.”

He laughs, nods. “I know that…I meant, the people you _do_ care about: Mary, George, Joan, me, everyone,” he shrugs. “We wouldn’t judge you. In fact, I kind of think we’d all encourage it.”

Anne glances away, shrugs with her hands stuffed into her pockets. “I know,” she says, finally, and stands still, feeling the heat of the sun radiating down on the black velvet she’s wearing. “That’s not why I turned it down.”

“Then…Why did you?”

Anne bows her head, gathers her thoughts before looking up at him again. “When,” she squeezes her eyes shut, opens them again. “When…Mary went through…this sort of thing-” Percy knows about that, nods. “She asked me to promise her something, and that promise has…frankly, liberated me throughout my life. Mary asked me to swear that I would never let anyone else dictate my future for me. The money _is_ generous, and I do believe they probably mean it simply in that spirit…for now. But money always comes with strings attached and sooner or later, if I took it, it would become an unspoken contract. Because they were buying my groceries, they’d get a say in what I eat _for the baby_. Because they were paying my rent, they’d get a say in where I lived _for the baby_.” Anne shrugs. “If I’m giving them this baby – and therefore the use of my body for nine months – it’s going to be solely on _my_ terms, not theirs: not for all the wealth in the world.”

Percy touches her face. “I love you, Anne Butler.”

“I love you, too, Percy North.” She pauses. “My turn. Why did you turn it down? I wouldn’t blame you, either.”

He shrugs. “It makes you a commodity. Whatever happens, Anne, you’re never going to be on the table for bartering. Ever. In any capacity, and particularly not to profit from something bad that happened to you. It felt…dirty, honestly, for me to accept that money. Besides,” he adds with a chuckle, wrinkling his nose. “I’m not too proud to admit that, well…To admit that I’m proud.” He laughs. “I’m not taking anyone’s money I haven’t earned.” He shakes his head. “So, Annie, what you’ve learned about the Pembrokes…does it help at all?”

“Help?”

“With…your decision?”

“ _Oh_.” She walks a short distance away, just to give her feet something to do, turns back to him, waits for him to come to her. “A little,” she says, shrugging. “I think I’d like to see their home, meet with them each individually. I mean, we’ve met, like, twice…How on earth am I supposed to get a grasp of what sort of parents they’ll make?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The zodiac stuff...I had Anne not know her date to sort of reference/poke a little fun, hopefully, at the fact that we don't know her date, or even year, of birth. I made her a Gemini on the basis that she's a very...polarizing sort of figure but I'm not really convinced that she was Gemini, specifically. Any thoughts on what her sign might've been? I'd love to hear ideas!!
> 
> October 2004 summary: Through flashbacks, we learn that Mary was pregnant when she was 14 and got rid of the baby. We also learn that she regrets this because she did it based on caving to the pressures her boyfriend and family put on her, rather than analyzing what she, herself, truly wanted. She makes Anne promise never to let anyone else make choices for her and Anne makes Mary promise the same.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is nodding, because it is something to do, but she’s thinking of the impulsivity, of the drunkenness, and the words, _I am not a patient person_ , and she is thinking of his child, the future one she might someday have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to @boleynqueens for the awesome and hilarious "Maybe I should have slept in!" quip <3

**Tuesday, December 5, 2017, 3:42pm**

The museum is brightly lit, its walls painted with purposeful strokes of color designed to draw out elements of each piece. It’s an archaic way of displaying artwork, Anne supposes. Modern museums prefer walls splashed all in white, but Anne thinks maybe she prefers this method. The theory of the white is that the art should be the only feature that captures the eye, but Anne believes that true art should draw the eye, regardless of its surroundings and, if anything, should beautify all that it touches.

She stands in front of a Baroque piece, its canvas massive and encompassing the whole wall, featuring life-sized figures. Icarus plummets towards earth as melting wax scalds his back: an ironic subject for so ambitious a project.

“I was pleasantly surprised when you suggested a museum.” Hearing the crisp British accent, Anne turns to face Henry Pembroke as he continues speaking. “I’ll take it you are an admirer.”

“An admirer,” she replies. “And a critic.”

“Ah,” Henry nods. “And what is it that you’d criticize in this work?”

Anne smiles. “You know, being a critic of something simply denotes an educated perspective, a willingness to critique, rather than indicating that the critic has any desire to find fault.” She pauses, grimaces, wants to suppress the impulse to point out the error she sees, but it slips out, anyway. “That being said…I do think this piece lacks imagination. There’s nothing fresh here and, given much-used nature of the subject matter, freshness is compulsory.”

Henry smirks. “Said with utter conviction, I have no doubts.” His eyes slide from the painting to meet her gaze. His orbs are deep, the darkest blue like a roiling ocean, but they twinkle playfully. “No _tabula rasa_ for you, then?”

She laughs. “I always prefer to make informed decisions.”

“Hence arranging this meeting, I suppose,” he points out. “Catalina mentioned you also reached out to her.”

“I thought it best if we each had one-on-one meetings, got to know each other individually a little better.”

“So you can make an informed decision,” he nods. “I think that is wise. So, Miss Butler, what do you want to know? I’m an open book.”

“Call me Anne,” she inserts, quickly. “First, I feel that I should make a confession to you, so that all my cards are on the table.” Henry arches his brows, but does not interrupt. “I’m not proud of this, but…I googled you. I wanted to know what I had gotten myself into and,” she shrugs. “I googled.”

“Ah,” Henry nods soberly. He’s looking at the painting, technically, but Anne doesn’t get the impression he’s really seeing it, just now. “Well, color me relieved.” He breaks into a grin and Anne (relieved) finds she smiles, too, by some instinct. His happiness, though foreign and a touch confusing, remains infectious. “The way that started out, I imagined I’d be hearing something much worse.”

Anne arches a brow. “Exactly what did you expect to hear?”

“Sins,” he replies, smirking. “You asked to confess, after all.”

“I suppose I considered snooping a iniquitous.”

“As it happens, most everyone I’ve ever met has googled me, so I admit, I don’t feel quite the same compunction against it. I googled you, too, you know.”

Anne glances at him in astonishment. “You…googled me?”

“Well, in the interest of full disclosure, I asked _Cromwell_ to google you but…six one way, half a dozen the other, and all that. He made a full report on his findings.”

“Cromwell?”

Henry waves a hand. “One of my family’s lawyers. It’s not important. The point is, I know a little about you, as well. It seems you’re driven and intelligent, two commendable qualities in my opinion.”

“What causes you to make that assessment of my character?”

“Your achievements,” he replies, breezily. “I just wonder…Does your ambition flow from you, or from your family?”

Anne feels affronted. “I might ask you the same.”

Henry’s smile is disarming. “You probably should. But don’t worry, I’m not asking you…I’m simply stating that I hope to work it out. Sometimes we think one thing of ourselves, when something else is, in fact, true.”

“So you don’t trust my assessment of _myself_?”

Henry shook his head. “Oh, I trust it. I simply trust my own more. Now, tell me, what did you work out about me from your exercise in googling?”

She shifts. “I will tell you that,” says Anne. “But we haven’t concluded talking about me, yet. What, exactly, did you learn by googling me? Or, rather, what did _Cromwell_ learn from googling me?”

Henry chuckles. “Fair enough. Your father is a first-rate lawyer who appears to have serious ambitions towards becoming a judge and, perhaps, rising even further in that capacity. Your mother has an old family name that helped build this area from the ground, up, and had a rather prestigious job, herself, which she gave up to become a full-time mother. Together, your parents run on a platform of traditional family values. You and your sister were educated abroad in Catholic monastic boarding schools. Your brother was educated in England. Despite the fact that you did not have any need-based scholarships, you had quite an impressive array of estimable academic awards and scholarships, and earned glowing reviews from your professors and teachers, if not from your social peers. It seems amongst your classmates you merited distinctly polarized impressions. But, then, you _are_ a Gemini,” he adds with a shrug. “This trend continued into your collegiate years and you, in fact, graduated with at the top of your class with honors. Next, you settled here, where you now share an apartment with your sister and a friend. Currently, you split your time working multiple jobs while you also work to obtain your doctorate but, to what end, I dare not speculate. Given the rooming situation and the jobs, one may conjecture that you now support yourself rather than receiving any assistance from your family and, notwithstanding, you continue to pursue your education above and beyond what is considered socially necessary in, forgive me, your socio-economic sphere: driven, intelligent. Did I miss anything?”

Anne narrows her eyes. “Why did you look me up?”

“I’m my father’s son, Anne. I, too, like to make informed decisions.”

She feels off-kilter now that she’s heard his recitation, but she is equally aware that she has nothing to stand on. After all, she did the same to him. “And here I like to think I’m mysterious.”

He chuckles. “You are. None of these facts mean anything, unless put together with what is uniquely you…which is why it is always important to meet, rather than judging from a computer screen. Google isn’t always accurate. I should know,” he adds with a shrug, his hands in his pockets. A pause follows. “Well, are you going to tell me what you learned about me?”

Anne steps closer to the painting, as though the flames of the engorged sun might warm her in the chill of the museum. Her lips curve into the hint of a smirk and she shrugs with her hands. “You may have already guessed…quite a lot.”

Henry nods. “My life is well documented,” he agrees. “Still, I’d like to hear it…and, more particularly, what you thought of it. It’s a great deal to take in all at once about anyone you’ve only just met. We may be strangers, but we _are_ now intimately connected. It’s strange, isn’t it?”

“Wild,” admits Anne. For once, it’s not a sarcastic remark. She wets her lips. “Well, to start with, your family is intimately linked to the government of England,” she begins. “Your father was the longest serving Prime Minister in English history.” Henry’s eyes glaze over, he nods, glances at the painting with unseeing eyes. He glances back to her with a smile that might be wary. “You are the third of his four children. Much of your early education was undertaken privately, but as you grew older you were inducted into the most prestigious schools in England, but only England. None of your education was conducted abroad, like your mother but _unlike_ your father. I know…what happened to your mother and brother,” she adds, quickly, speeds past it when she sees something flickering in his eyes that, she imagines, is pain, given how quickly he covers it up with a laugh – a barked laugh, and crosses a hand across his mouth. “I also know how you took it: constant partying and reckless behavior. At one point, you crashed your car into a lake and would have drowned if someone hadn’t happened to see and jumped in after you.” Henry folds his hands in front of him, taps his index and middle fingers against the opposite hand. “Soon after, you married Catalina, a few years later, had little Maria, but haven’t…had success with any others. And now you’re…here. In America.” Anne shrugs. “Why?”

Henry shakes his head. “…Why? What?”

“Why are you here? Your life is extremely English. Extremely. Have you ever been abroad, before?”

“I’ve traveled,” he replies, half-defensive. “I’ve been to France a few times,” he pauses, shrugs. “I’ve been to France. Oh, and Monaco. I’ve been to Monaco.”

Anne bites her lip, chuckles. “So what brings you to a new continent?”

Henry closes his eyes, shrugs again. “I – we came here to…have a baby. We heard Dr. Butts was the best. You know all about how _that_ went.”

“I _do_. God, I got up so early on such little sleep, that morning.  Maybe I should have slept in!” It’s not really funny, given their situation, but still it _is_ and Anne laughs, anyway, steps towards him. “Which brings us back to today.”

Henry clears his throat. “I don’t…suppose…you know…yet? I mean, if…You don’t know if-”

“The doctor said it’d be a few weeks before I’d find out if I was pregnant or not.” Henry nods, smiles a false smile, nods again. Anne feels a twinge of pity. “But…I could start testing now, if you’d like?”

“No, no,” he laughs. “That’s…not necessary. I apologize. I’m not a patient person, Anne, but I can wait. I can wait for the important things.”

She is nodding, because it is something to do, but she’s thinking of the impulsivity, of the drunkenness, and the words, _I am not a patient person_ , and she is thinking of his child, the future one she might someday have. She watches his eyes fall, flick away from hers. He colors slightly and she knows _he_ knows he’s being assessed. He doesn’t like it, she can see, but she can’t blame him for that, at all. It’s not a good feeling. “So, um, how did you meet Catalina?”

He puts his hands on his hips, looks back up at her, drops his hands, fidgets with his wedding ring. “Her mother and mine were best friends. Of course, Catalina is Spanish, my family is English, so we never actually met until she was a teenager and they came to visit.”

“’She’ was a teenager?”

He shifts. “Oh, Catalina is older than I am,” he points out. “Her age…it’s part of why we wanted to try the artificial route. That is, she’s still young and everything, of course…she’s just…” Henry shrugs. “She worries about her biological clock. I keep telling her there’s plenty of time, but-”

“But she’s not a patient person, either?” suggests Anne.

Henry laughs. “You’d be surprised. But I am not patient and she’s well aware of the fact. She puts more pressure on herself than she needs to. I told you, Anne. I can wait.”

“So you two…grew up together, more or less?”

“More or less,” Henry shrugs. “We didn’t grow _very_ close until after…after my mother and brother died. She was terribly…” Henry shrugs. “It was a terrible blow to us all. I guess mutual grief brought us together. It meant everything to have someone close who understood.” He bites the inside of his cheek, Anne sees from the movement of his jaw, the crease in his skin. His hands are on his hips again, his legs apart, he looks now like the tabloids suggest: tall, broad, even overbearing, but his eyes are turned away and their characterization is entirely different from the stance, as though it is an act, a defense, and what goes on internally is unrelated to the image. Anne knows well that feeling and she has the sudden impulse to close the gap, to touch his shoulder, but she suppresses it. She does not know him.

“That’s natural,” supplies Anne finally, encouraging.

Henry glances back up at her, his eyes resting on hers for a prolonged moment. He flicks his eyes away again. Finally, he says: “You didn’t tell me what you gleaned from your knowledge of my background. By your own admission you researched me in an effort to make me out, so enlighten me. What did you think?” He leans forward slightly, as though daring her with all his height and breadth. His eyes narrow as he issues the question and a smirk toys at the edge of his mouth.

“Is that a challenge?” asks Anne, arching a brow.

“If you like.”

Anne has never shied away from a challenge. She takes a pace closer to him. “You’re a bit of a mixed bag, aren’t you?” she murmurs and watches his eyes narrow. She’s about to make out something else too: how this man reacts to praise…and how he reacts to criticism. She remembers from her creative writing lessons that, when appraising a work, one always begins first with the positives before launching into the negatives. “You have a singular education,” she begins, rising to the occasion, looking straight into his eyes. She should probably feel more bashful about telling a man to his face the results of her _research_ on him – and she is embarrassed in one sense – but in a distant kind of way, a trepidation banished when he issued it as a challenge. She speaks as though it is some sort of collegiate argument, with her chin raised, her eyes sparkling with certainty. Anne has rarely ever been defeated in a debate and, for all his education, she doesn’t think the spoiled heir to his daddy’s fortune can be the one to debunk the reigning debate champ (whatever _he_ seems clearly to think for all his arrogance). “But you imagine that it sets you enough apart at that you need only make a pronouncement for others to believe – any failure to do so being merely ignorance on _their_ part. This much,” she adds. “Drawn not from research but, rather, from your present demeanor.” A look of affront – shock (he leans back) and irritation (skirting across his brows like a stormfront). Anne grins. “See? I have you,” she tells him, tilting her head. “You didn’t expect that, did you?”

“Then let me raise you one: you are competitive.”

“I don’t try to hide it.”

“And proud.”

Anne opens her mouth, closes it, raises an eyebrow. “All right,” she allows, finally. “I am. But so are you.”

He laughs. “I was taught to be proud of the fact.”

Anne bites her lip, trying very hard to suppress a laugh. “You’re proud…of your pride?”

She watches disconcertment flutter across his face. “It’s patriotic.”

She brings her hand to her face and, despite herself, she does laugh. “It’s _patriotic_?”

He shakes his head, and, she thinks, suppresses his desire to roll his eyes. “You’d have to be English to understand.”

She laughs again, nods. “Oh, certainly,” she drawls. “I’d have to be _something_.”

Henry levels his gaze with hers and Anne can’t prevent another giggle from bubbling out. “Are you laughing at me?”

“I thought that was obvious.”

Despite himself, Henry glances away, smiles, laughs, too. Finally, he says, “Are you telling me you’re not proud of your pride?”

“What kind of sentence is that!” exclaims Anne, throwing her hands up and laughing.

He colors, the unattractive splotchy coloring that tends to haunt those of half-ginger inclinations. It’s not humiliation, however, so much as anger. “It’s true!”

Anne folds her arms across her chest. “Then…explain it to me.”

Henry sighs, stows his hands in his pockets. “All right,” he replies. “My father was the longest serving PM in history. He won, despite crippling odds, and he not only kept England solvent after it was heavily in debt, he allowed her to flourish!”

Anne ticked off one, then two fingers off as he spoke.

“What are you doing?”

“Counting. Go on.”

Henry looks genuinely distressed, looks towards Icarus, as though the painting will aid him, then back to her. “Counting _what_?”

Anne shrugs. “Your rationale. 1) Your father was the longest serving Prime Minister, 2) he helped England financially. Go on.”

Henry glares, but continues. “My mother’s father was also-” he pauses, looks at her distractedly. “Why aren’t you counting this?”

Anne shrugs. “Is that your cause for pride? Your mother had a father? I, too, have a grandfather, Henry. You’re going to have to try a little harder then _that_.”

He shakes his head, exasperated. “No, it’s his _achievements_.”

“Tell me.”

“He was _also_ a Prime Minister.”

“Huh,” mutters Anne, ticking off a third finger.

“Even better than my father.”

“What, with the finances?”

Henry looks up, surprised. “Oh, no. No, with…the Cold War.”

“What else?”

Henry frowns. “What…else?”

“What else are you proud of? Sorry,” Anne bites her lip. “Of what else are you proud? Can’t…end a sentence in a preposition.”

Henry stares at her for a moment, eyes sparkling, and Anne realizes all at once that he is suppressing laughter.

“What?”

“Did you just…correct your _own_ grammar?”

“I’m not a hypocrite!” exclaims Anne. “If I’m going to correct other people, I’d better correct myself!”

Henry’s grin bursts and he laughs. His face is joyful when he laughs, a wholehearted smile, his twinkling eyes bright as he gives himself over to the joy of it and Anne finds herself laughing alongside him. His laughter is an irresistible thing, full of life and mirth. She brings her hand up to her mouth, trying to suppress the sound as it echoes through the museum. A docent gives them a very stern look and Henry puts a hand to the small of her back, guides her on to the next room.

“You know, when the doctor had just inseminated me, he misused his subject/object pronouns and I…corrected him. Like that was the most important thing at that moment.”

“You didn’t,” replies Henry, laughing, glancing towards the ceiling.

“I _did_ ,” chuckles Anne, burying her face in her hands.

“Well, you have to keep things in perspective,” he teases, lightly, but when she looks up, he’s looking at her intently, and she can feel the question he wants to ask hovering between them.

Anne rubs her arm. “I haven’t decided yet. I promise, I will let you know. _Either_ way, I’ll let you know.”

Henry nods. “Of course,” he mumbles.

“But…you were telling me…the reasons for your pride.”

“Oh, yes. All the above-”

“So far, we’re up to four.”

“Then, five, I’m descended from Edward I.” He stands tall, emanating pride and, despite herself, Anne chuckles again. “What now?”

“Sorry, it’s just…you mean Edward Longshanks…the villain from the movie Braveheart, right? You’re proud to be descended from the actual Hammer of the Scots? Who, by the way, has…just…so many, many descendants that being one is frankly hardly an achievement.”

Henry is affronted again, staring at her with an open mouth.

“If you say ‘How dare you,’ I will absolutely laugh,” says Anne.

“I wasn’t going to say that!”

“All right, you’re up to five,” she says. “Is there anything else you want to throw my way?”

“Not when you’re judging me so harshly about it,” he responds with narrowed eyes.

Anne smirks. “Fair enough. So, that’s five…Do you know what I notice? None of those reasons, Henry, are actually about _you_.”

He turns to her with a look of astonishment. It’s genuine, that look: eyes wide, jaw slack, but he commands it quickly, looks away from her. “I-“ he swallows, looks back at her. “They’re, they’re _all_ about me.”

“They’re about your heritage, but the same could be said about any of your other relatives. Not a word was individual.”

“You don’t believe in taking the family line?”

Anne laughs, a humorless laugh this time. “I always believe in supporting my family,” she responds. “But if you ask me about my accomplishments, I will tell you what _I_ have done. Not what they have.”

“But you didn’t ask my about my accomplishments,” he responds. “You asked me about the cause of my pride _in_ my pride. Tell me, Anne, does not some portion of your own pride proceed from your family and its achievements?”

Anne thinks of her grandfather, Geoffrey Butler, who came from very little and yet built a stepping stool upon which all his descendants still climb. She thinks of her mother’s family, the Arundels, whose influence resulted in the prosperity of large swathes of her home state and who had stuck to their (admittedly sometimes dubious) principles, even when the going got rough…and rougher, still. She thinks of her father’s mother, a great lady in her own right, who with her sister fought for women’s rights and who helped build the surrounding counties through their charities. She thinks of her own parents who, for all their flaws, suffered batterings and droughts, and overcame them all to fight on and achieve and raise three children to whom they gave what they considered to be the best of everything: education, principles, opportunities, discipline, ambition.

Anne doesn’t like to admit what he’s implying about herself, likes to think of herself as more liberal in her ideals, more open-minded in her outlook, but she can’t help but call upon what’s come before her. She can’t help but think that they’re building an empire and that there is, in fact, some sort of debt of greatness in her and that, yes, yes, for all of that…Anne is proud of them, despite all their flaws, and proud of her connection to them. She doesn’t want to admit it, but Anne won’t ignore it, either.

“You’re right,” she says, finally, shrugging. “I _do_ have pride in them, but the difference is that I am not proud _of_ that pride. In fact,” she confesses, shrugging. “I’m embarrassed by it. I like to think I’m better than falling back of what other people have done in defining myself.”

“And why is that? Some of them might be gone, but they’re not forgotten. And we, _we_ are what is left of them. Isn’t that cause to feel something?” asks Henry, turning to inspect an image of Judith, gleaming sword in hand and Holofernes’ severed head resting on a table beside her.

Anne turns suddenly away, feels ill. _Nerves_ , she thinks, but she knows well and good it’s not that. Though she dislikes that it’s an irrational fear, the idea of beheading has always panicked her. She approaches a more sedate image: the Blessed Virgin visiting her cousin, Elizabeth. Anne wraps her hand around the back of her neck, looking at it, thinking of her father’s commissioned painting of a similar scene, and shrugs, drops her hands away. “What do you feel, Henry?”

Henry approaches her. “I already told you. Pride. If my ancestors could do it, can be remembered, why can’t I?”

“You want to be remembered?” inquires Anne.

“Don’t you? It’s the closest any of us can come to immortality. Besides, of course, descendants. Legacies, memories, they _mean_ something.”

Her shrug is noncommittal. “Remembered,” she begins softly. “For what? You’re descended from Edward I – do you want to be remembered as the man whose brutality subdued three nations? A man who butchered whole populations of _his own people_ just to prove a point?”

Henry bites his lip, waves a hand. “Of _course_ not,” he argues. “And I don’t try to defend any of those actions, but that isn’t how I remember Edward I.”

“How do you remember him, then?”

Henry shrugs. “The way my father taught me. I remember him as a man who brought stability to a land that had very little of it. On his foundations a great nation was built.”

“After two hundred and fifty years, yes, greatness at last was achieved and peace was restored.”

“You can’t possibly blame him for two hundred and fifty years of turmoil!”

“It wasn’t entirely his fault, that I agree, and there were certainly years of peace between: Edward III, Henry IV, and Henry V’s reigns, parts of Edward IV’s come to mind…but Longshanks put into motion many of the events that destroyed his own son and unraveled once again after the death of Edward III, plunging England into the Peasants’ Revolt and ultimately the Wars of the Roses!”

“All history leads back and back and back. Edward III is more to blame for the Peasants’ Revolt than Edward I, and Richard II and his ministers still more so. And the Wars of the Roses,” he shakes his head. “Who in those spheres didn’t share a portion of the blame for that? If you blame Edward I for things that happened centuries after his death, why not blame William the Conqueror? Or the Vikings for daring to set foot in anything more Southern than Sweden and Norway?”

“You mock,” replies Anne, breezily. “But they played their roles, too.”

A pause. Henry’s gaze is heavy, thoughtful. “So,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “You agree: it all connects. And, if that follows, does it not also follow that our own lives are impacted by these people? Ergo, it is not unreasonable to feel a connection to them, and to their memory, or to derive pleasure or confidence from that link? Pride, even?”

Anne laughs, glances upwards, shaking her head. “I already admitted I’m proud of my family. That is only a small fraction of the issue.”

Henry bites the inside of his lip. “Then what is the issue?”

“It’s twofold. Firstly, our legacies mean something, yes, I agree, but it’s our actions that matter, moreso than what people might think about them, later. Secondly, and perhaps more important to this particular meeting: you’re still leaning on events that occurred before your own lifetime. I’m not trying to acquaint myself with your forebearers – interesting as they are. It’s _you_ I want to get to know.”

“I invited you to give a summation of my character, earlier. You shied away.”

“I didn’t shy away!” she exclaims, though she now supposes, in fact, to a degree, she _did_. “I-“ she bites her lip. “It didn’t seem fair. You see, the events of my life are purely _facts_ , plain and simple. Objective. My education and career have no political or social bearing on anyone, so facts remain facts. You don’t have that privilege. While there is a _wealth_ of information on you to be found, barely a scrap of it wasn’t colored by politics or fetishized for public consumption in tabloids. Concrete facts were difficult to sift out.”

There’s surprise in his face and his eyes feel heavy.

Anne sighs. “My sister accused me, when I was…researching you, of jumping to conclusions on things and…she was right. I do. So I’m trying to keep an open mind. I’m specifically trying _not_ to make summations based on what I found out that way because you deserve a fair shot…especially given the weight of the choice I have to make.”

The silence is as heavy as his eyes and he’s looking at her, earnestly, intently. She wishes that she could chisel into that head of his and let the thoughts flow out where she could hear them…while simultaneously feeling a jolt of gladness that she doesn’t know. She’s curious, but she suspects that she wouldn’t like the answers that flit just behind his oceanic eyes.

“Fair enough,” says Henry, finally. He resumes his walk. She realizes that it was her snap judgments he was looking for, that he _genuinely_ wanted to know what people who hadn’t met him thought of him, but she’s glad not to be the one bearing _that_ news. That’s an aspect of their already difficult relationship that they don’t need to pile atop the rest just now. He stops, turns back. “May I ask you just one thing?”

Anne shrugs. “You can ask.”

He barks out a laugh, nods. “All right. It’s this: did you like me?”

“What?”

“Did you…” he shrugs, looks away. He’s coloring softly, blooming like a rose in autumn. “Did you like me?”

“I…” Anne sighs. “I felt badly for you.”

He laughs again, humorlessly, rubs the back of his neck. He isn’t looking at her.

“But mostly I was thinking of you specifically as the father of my…potential child,” she points out. “Which definitely colored my impressions.”

“So,” he says, turns back towards her but doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “You didn’t like me.”

“I didn’t dislike you! I was mostly worried that you seemed irresponsible.”

“Irresponsible?”

“That wreck…where you nearly drowned? I pictured my kid in the backseat. And…and those parties? I imagined my child staring aghast at those pictures of you and those…those…exotic dancers…and that Brandon guy! Of course it…worried me.”

He stares at the Visitation painting in sullen silence and Anne nods, chews on her lip. She’s tempted to roll her eyes, say ‘ _whatever_ ,’ walk away, but it feels unnecessarily cruel, somehow. Henry’s face is a tragedy, pale and drawn, and she knows she’s directly responsible for that look. She knows that all of that behavior came from trying to escape his pain, and the only person he seems to have ever hurt in all of that, was himself.

“I-” Anne exhales slowly. “I don’t blame you for that, you know,” she says, finally. “It’s just not the lifestyle I want for any child of mine. I mean, is that what you want for your kids?”

He glances up sharply, rebuffing her with a look. “Of _course_ not.” He shakes his head, mumbles: “Weren’t you ever wild?”

“The wildest thing I’ve ever done to date,” replies Anne, refusing to look at him as her face goes red, staring stubbornly at the painting, instead. “Is get _maybe_ pregnant out of wedlock.” She glances at him in her periphery, slowly angles her face to actually face him and finds he’s looking at her again: looking at her intently again. “I think,” she begins again. “We need to face the fact that the two of us…we’ve lived very different lives.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” he responds, earnest again. “Different perspectives, dealt with openly, can bring elucidation to most any situation.”

“Honesty,” says Anne. “Honesty brings elucidation. Henry, there’s something I need you to promise me, right now.”

“Yes?”

“I’ll promise it, too. Henry, I promise to always be open and honest with you. Do you promise the same?”

His gaze is heavy to bear, hooded with shadows cast from the floodlights above them, and then he is holding out his hand. Anne stares at it dumbly for a moment before realizing she is meant to put her hand into his. She complies. “I promise you, Anne Butler, I will always be open and honest with you.” His hand is warm and hers is cold, and when he closes his other hand around it, she feels relieved: relieved by the heat, relieved by the oath.

“Then,” says Anne, turning her face up to his. “We can achieve anything together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry's grandfather in question is ofc a reference to Edward IV who you can read about here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_IV_of_England
> 
> Naturally, ofc, Henry VIII was, in fact, a descendant of Edward I, but since Edward I had so many children it was easy to say that even Henry Pembroke could easily be one ;D You can read more about Edward I here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_I_of_England
> 
> Geoffrey Butler = Geoffrey Boleyn you can read more about him here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geoffrey_Boleyn I ofc altered some details since Anne's circumstances in this fic are significantly reduced from what they would have been in reality.
> 
> The Arundel family = the Howard family you can read about them here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_family
> 
> The reference to Anne's grandmother is a reference to Lady Margaret Butler, who was with her sister an heiress to the Earl of Ormonde, and fought for their rights to that title, which is why I made them feminists. You can read more about her here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_family
> 
> You can read about Thomas Boleyn here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Boleyn,_1st_Earl_of_Wiltshire
> 
> And his wife, Elizabeth Howard here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Boleyn,_Countess_of_Wiltshire
> 
> Peasant's Revolt: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peasants%27_Revolt
> 
> Wars of the Roses: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wars_of_the_Roses
> 
> In other news, apparently this is a reincarnation fic...I didn't mean for it to be the characters just...did that hahaha but who's really surprised we all know I'm trash for reincarnation <3


End file.
